


A Change in the Wind

by nowforruin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:43:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 65,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowforruin/pseuds/nowforruin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Emma’s twenty-eighth birthday approaches and Henry becomes more and more distant, Regina decides trusting in her wicked abilities will no longer do – Emma Swan must be stopped from ever reaching Storybrooke. Lucky for her, a certain pirate would do just about anything for revenge. AU, Captain Swan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Here it is, the newest project for your (hopeful) enjoyment! Pirates and magic ahead....

A fine day to meet an evil queen, he thinks, glowering from beneath the mop of unruly hair dripping into his eyes. Overhead, rain pours down as though the clouds themselves are angry he’s taken the meeting with this woman. The oiled leather duster nearly reaching the ground had seen stronger maelstroms at sea and remained drier, but a bit of wet wasn’t going to keep Killian Jones from a lucrative job.

 

Stepping off the ship onto the floating dock, he takes a minute to get his land legs. Years at sea make a man a bit wobbly once he sets foot on something solid once more. It didn’t matter if that man is solid muscle and in firm control of every last sinew between them; the land does things to a sailor.

 

Especially to a pirate.

 

Resisting the urge to grumble about the weather a bit more, Killian sets off down the muddied dock. The summons had come by way of an arrow thunked into the deck of his ship, note attached. The Evil Queen (or Regina, as she seems to be calling herself these days) has plenty of power, but it does seem a mite bit overdone to be putting holes in the deck.

 

It wasn’t a descriptive note, and it hadn’t revealed much of a purpose. The pirate was wanted and he was wanted immediately. Killian was of half a mind to ignore the damn thing and stay out to sea, prowling this curious new land he found himself (and his crew) pulled into. Regina was unlikely to come for him there, surrounded by the waves and miles out from her precious, cursed town – Storybrooke, if the signs can be believed.

 

By the time Killian finds himself walking up to an admittedly impressive white manor, his mood has gone from foul to black. The rain isn’t letting up, lightning forking across the sky as he trudges through the streets. He has excellent boots, but he’s soaked through as though his very bones will never dry out.

 

He wants to know what in the bloody hell Regina wants, and then he means to be on the next tide out of this odd little town.

 

At least she has the courtesy to be prompt. The wide double doors open at his approach, and Killian smirks as he enters, dripping his way across the stone floors.

 

She’s waiting for him, her attire quite unlike anything he’s seen before. He squints, uncertain whether he finds this becoming. The queen cuts a fine figure in any realm, but this one features peculiar clothing, indeed.

 

“Your Majesty,” he drawls out, sketching the mockery of a bow. “I’ve been summoned, yes?”

 

“Your impertinence will get you killed one day,” Regina replies, her eyes narrowing on his. Killian isn’t fooled. The queen must need something, something quite badly to have used up enough magic to not only send a message to Neverland, but to provide him passage out.

 

“Aye, your Majesty, I expect it might. But not this day.” Killian smirks as Regina’s glare deepens, leaving a trail of rainwater and mud behind him as he saunters past her into the house. He finds a comfortable looking chair, and not minding its white upholstery, falls into it with his usual grace. “So you’ll be having need of me, then. Get on with it.”

 

“I have a deal for you, pirate.”

 

“Last time I brokered a deal with _you_ , darling, instead of passage to this magic free land of yours, I found myself back in Neverland.”

 

“You failed to hold up your end of the bargain. I allowed you to retain your life. I had a feeling you may prove…useful…one day. And here you are, doing just that.” 

 

“Aye, I expect that’s why I have a bloody hole in my ship.” Killian produces the mangled note from his pocket, the ink barely legible after the soaking rain. “You summoned me here, and here I am. Kindly explain why. I have a tide to catch. I haven’t any desire to remain in your cursed town having enjoyed the hospitality of Neverland these many years.”

 

“Yes, I expect you do.” Regina’s steely eyes regard the pirate for another long moment before she begins to pace. “You are in possession of a unique vessel.”

 

“You refer to the Jolly Roger traveling through realms.”

 

“Precisely.” Regina stops before a window, an apple tree visible in the yard as lightning forks across the sky once more.

 

“So you’ve retrieved me from Neverland to travel across realms. What’ll be in it for me this time besides a one way passage back?”

 

“You lack patience.”

 

“And you lack the ability to do whatever you need done yourself, so name it already. The tide and all.”

 

“Anxious to be off, pirate?”

 

“Anxious to be far from you. The crew as well.”

 

Regina fails to immediately respond, and Killian feels his patience wearing thin. His natural talents serve him well in any realm, though perhaps not in the most honest of circles. No matter. This realm or any other, what was it that Regina called him?

 

Resourceful, indeed.

 

“While you’ve been off in Neverland, I have been building a life here, pirate. I have a son. My son is important to me, and this town…this town respects me. They fear me, as well they should.”

 

“Aye, you’ve cursed them well. What of it?”

 

“Yes, this curse is lovely. Quite the accomplishment. But Snow White, even wrapped up in that dowdy schoolteacher, still works to ruin my happiness. My son…he’s my damn son. But Snow’s daughter gave birth to him, in a prison cell no less, and I get the impression Henry is now looking for her. She’s still in this realm, beyond my grasp. You must find her and remove her before my son brings that woman back here. Some ridiculous prophecy names her a savior, the one to break this curse. I can’t have that.”

 

Killian raises an eyebrow, tapping his hook against the heel of his boot. “You want me to murder the lass? Another bloody assassination?”

 

Regina laughs, a sinister laugh that makes his skin crawl. “Wouldn’t be the first woman you’ve sent to her death, pirate.”

 

“You haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.” His gaze darkens, black memories filling his blood with the call for revenge.

 

“Be that as it may…” She pauses, pursing her lips. “No, she may serve a purpose yet. Don’t kill her. But do take her to another realm, beyond the reach of this one.”

 

“Have you a preference?”

 

Regina shrugs, turning back to him with her eyes practically aglow with scheming. “You’re a creative man. I’ll leave that bit to you. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it entertaining.”

 

“And my payment?”

 

“I’ve released you from Neverland, haven’t I?”

 

“So you have. But you’ll recall it wasn’t my first sojourn. Send me back, if you like. I’ll find another way out. Doubt you’ll find another ship to carry off the lass.” He’s bluffing – the thought of returning to Neverland sends sharp stabs of fear down his spine, but his eyes are clear as he returns the queen’s glare. He’s got decades upon decades worth of poker faces. Let her try to out bluff him.

 

“Fine then. In payment for Emma Swan’s removal, I’ll give you back your hand. Much more satisfying to take out an old foe with two hands, isn’t it?”

 

It’s a struggle to keep his composure as he lifts the hook into the air, the metal glinting dangerously. He lets her wait, twisting the hook to and fro as though considering the merit of her offer. “Aye,” he finally agrees, getting to his feet and offering his right hand. “We’ve got ourselves a deal.”

 

“It will serve my purposes best to have this business conducted in a timely fashion.”

 

“I shall be on the next tide out. Where should the lass be found?”

 

“Boston.”

 

“Never heard of it.”

 

Regina smiles that sinister smile again. “What would you like to know?”

 

Nothing she says prepares him for the oddity of this realm. He’s been to many a city spanning the globe, yet none have packed in the number of people this Boston kingdom possesses. They’re everywhere, all done up in the same odd clothes the evil queen was sporting.

 

They talk into thin pieces of metal and glass, and captain strange vessels of steel painted in the most garish of colors. It’s far worse than being land-bound with a horse, this Boston place. He’ll be grateful to retrieve the Swan girl and be on his way.

 

Regina provided him directions to her dwelling, and it’s not a matter of great difficulty to gain admittance to her quarters. He’s in luck – she’s not arrived home yet. It’ll be an easy matter to wait for her in the darkness, the potion Regina provided ready to be poured over a cloth and held to Swan’s mouth to make her a bit more manageable.

 

So wait he does.

 

It’s perhaps an hour later she enters. Killian’s eyes widen from his hiding place, astounded at the sight of her. Regina hadn’t mentioned anything other than the girl was a blonde – she’s bloody _beautiful_.

 

Especially clad in her strange garment, bright red fabric that leaves next to nothing to the imagination. Killian grins to himself, letting his gaze drag over her lean legs, the swell of her breasts above the low neckline. Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all. Aye, she won’t take kindly to the kidnapping bit, but he’s got time to win her over.

 

Regina said she wanted her gone from the realm, but all other instructions were vague. Killian can afford to dally, some. It’s been plenty long without the hand – what’s a few extra days to enjoy the delectable Emma Swan?

 

His wandering thoughts are interrupted by a click and the flare of fire in her hands in the darkness, and Killian cautiously sinks deeper into the shadows. Regina failed to mention the lass having magic. He’ll have to be a bit more careful in his apprehension of her.

 

He knows he should act, pour the potion out, grab the girl and have done with it. But she’s lit a candle in the middle of a strangely shaped piece of cake, and she’s simply staring at it, the golden glow of the tiny flame illuminating her features.

 

There’s a deep sadness in her eyes, and it shouldn’t, but it tugs at his heart, pushes at a place long dead.

 

“Happy birthday, Emma,” she whispers, folding her arms under her chin and watching the candle burn down. “Welcome to twenty-eight.”

 

He watches her for another long moment, watches as the wax melts into her cake and she does nothing to stop it. The melancholy tugs at him again, a strange protectiveness clouding his judgment as he fishes in his pocket for the small glass vial.

 

He’s a bloody pirate, not a sentimental fool.

 

To her credit, she doesn’t shriek when he slides out of the shadows. Her shoulders straighten, her body tensed to spring as she evaluates him with the coldness of a warrior. “How the hell did you get in here?” she demands, eyes narrowed in a dangerous glare.

 

He shrugs, inching closer to her. “Wasn’t difficult.”

 

To his utter surprise, she laughs. “Listen, I don’t know what sort of Halloween bullshit you’re up to, but it’s next weekend, not this weekend. Go sleep it off in your own apartment, or wherever you live.” She gestures to the door, muttering something under her breath about drunks and finding a new building.

 

“Halloween?”

 

“You can’t be serious.” She rolls her eyes at him, still wary, but far less so. “Just go. I don’t really want to deal with the cops tonight, so let’s just pretend you didn’t break into my apartment too drunk to find your own. You leave. I drink a bottle of wine. Everyone is happy. Or something like that.”

 

“You’re a trifle bossy, lass.”

 

“And _you’re_ in my apartment.”

 

“Not for long.” He grins, a smile that has earned him many a lady in his bed. “I’ll be leaving shortly, Miss Swan. Once I’ve got what I’ve come for.”

 

She freezes at the use of her name, her eyes darting to the small bag on the stone surface beside her bit of cake. He’s closer, and before she can lunge for it, he’s knocked it to the ground.

 

“What do you want?” Her voice is steady, but he sees the way her eyes flicker around the room, taking stock of her surroundings.

 

Regina did not tell him the lass was likely to be trouble.

 

He grins at her. “You, love.”

 

She darts away from him, but he’s faster, and he’s been watching her, anticipating her move with years of experience. But he doesn’t count on her fighting back quite so viciously, her elbow sinking into his belly with surprising force.

 

It’s only when he holds the hook to her throat that she stills suddenly, her breathing heavy and her eyes wide. He tries not to enjoy it, the way she’s pressed against him, the view the dress affords him standing behind her, but he does.

 

 

“Sorry, love. Truly is a shame we couldn’t meet under happier circumstances.”

 

Her protest is swallowed in a wad of fabric, Regina’s potion doing the trick nicely. She collapses into his arms, limp as a ragdoll.

 

“Yes, a shame indeed,” he repeats to himself, carefully lowering her to the ground and cradling her head as he looks around for some less conspicuous clothing to put over the dress, attract less attention.

 

In the end, he locates some dark garments and a heavy coat. She’ll need it, at sea, though the wool has been poorly fashioned and is unlikely to offer much protection from the water.

 

It’s only as he’s lifting her into his arms that he wonders why he even cares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Peeks out from behind fingers* .... Thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

 

She comes to as he approaches the dock, but Regina’s potion hasn’t worn off completely. She’s still weak – he can tell it’s a struggle for her to open her eyes, but she fights him anyway, struggles in his grip.

 

“Keep thrashing about like that, and you’re likely to be dropped on your pretty head,” he growls in her ear. He’s tied her wrists, a fact which the long sleeves of her coat covers nicely.

 

This realm isn’t really so different from others. Getting her here hasn’t been any trouble – folk see what they wish to see. He carries a woman in his arms, periodically murmurs something sweet close to her ear, and passersby see a man with his sweetheart in the place of a pirate kidnapping a savior.

 

“You’re a bastard.” There’s fire behind the words, slurred as they are. “You’ll pay for this.”  

 

“Mouthy for a lass who’s let herself be kidnapped.” He sighs, setting her onto her wobbly feet. “You’ve got a fire, love, but you’ll do better if you listen to me carefully. No one is coming to save you. You’ll be getting on my ship, and we are going for a bit of a sail. Don’t try to run. It won’t serve you.”

 

Chin up, fierce green eyes flash back at him in the approaching lightning. Even with her long blonde hair loose and dampened by the drizzle, there’s an intelligence and determination in those eyes Killian is loathe to see fade. She stares at him in silence, her body rigid with her hands bound before her. He’ll cut the rope, once they’re out to sea, but it’s a necessary precaution at this moment.

 

“I am not going anywhere, least of all with _you_.”

 

Killian chuckles. “Like hell,” he mutters, looping an arm around her waist that tightens like a steel band. “Walk.”

 

“No. I said, I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“Difficult wench.” She kicks violently as he simply lifts her into the air, flings her over one shoulder, and starts down the dock toward the Jolly Roger.

 

She’s stopped struggling by the time he deposits her on a bench in his quarters, the ship already beginning to move. To no surprise of his own, Killian discovered the crew ready to set sail no sooner than his boot hit the deck.

 

Nary a word is spoken about the flailing lass over his shoulder neither. It pleases him, his crew obedient in spite of their grumblings at doing business with the evil queen.

 

Emma only glares at him, her words having ceased once he slung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. A part of him appreciates that, her silent refusal to beg or plead. This is no fair maiden spun of glass, no. Liquid steel sits upon his bench, a woman who will not be tamed for anything. Though her hands are still bound, her chin is up and her spine straight. Killian can’t help but admire her.

 

She doesn’t even flinch when he approaches, pulling a knife from his boot. In fact, the expression on her face remained unchanged as he advances on her, grabs the rope with his hook and cuts the ropes from her wrists before replacing the knife.

 

It’s only as he’s rising from the task that she strikes, fast as a snake. It’s no feminine slap she delivers to his jaw, but a curled fist intent on breaking bone.  Sadly for her, Killian has been in many a pub brawl. Jaw stinging, he manages to subdue her in less time than her punch took, both her wrists grasped tightly in his hand.

 

“I do believe a thank you would have been more polite,” is all he says as he meets her defiant expression. Beneath his feet, the familiar pitch and roll of the ship sends a rush of relief through him. They’ve cleared the harbor - they’re on his terms now.

 

“I am not going to hurt you. You’ve made yourself a powerful enemy that wishes you take an extended holiday. I shall be your guide.” He sketches her a bow, unable to resist a smirk as he does so. “You’ll be needing dry clothes. Then I am going to see about a meal.”

 

“You can’t keep me here.”

 

“Ah, but I can, lass, but I can. Can you not feel it? We’re on the ocean now. Behind me, that window there, all it contains is the wide-open sea. You’re free to roam this ship, and you’re free to entertain yourself how you see fit, but make no mistakes, your wings are clipped.”

 

Her glare darkens, but Killian releases his grip on her anyway. Rising to his full height, he strips off his coat, annoyed to find his vest and shirt are still damp. Only the Swan girl’s stare at his back prevents him from stripping it all off where he stands, though a part of him thrills at the idea, just to see if perhaps he could draw that familiar flicker of feminine interest from her eyes.  

 

Forcing himself to leave the room before he does something he shouldn’t, Killian levels one last look at his unfortunate captive. He’s surprised to find something in her eyes has changed, something far less cold simmering away in their dark depths as her eyes flicker over him. Meeting her gaze, his lips twist up into an overly cheerful grin. “Hit me again, and I’ll have no choice but to replace your bonds.”

 

The lock has yet to click into place before Emma picks up the nearest object and hurls it at the door. Whatever it is, it splinters into a thousand pieces, offering a moment’s satisfaction. It’s followed by a string of curses and a stomp of her foot, barefoot as it is.

 

The bastard didn’t even put shoes on her feet, though she does notice she’s wearing her heavy wool coat over her dress.

 

How strange – a kidnapper worried about her catching a chill.

 

Anger turns into curiosity as a small crate slides across the floor and she has to reach for the back of a chair to keep her balance. She’s on a boat. On the ocean. With a man with a hook for a hand who appears to either be under the mistaken impression Halloween has come early or is possibly an escaped mental patient.

 

“All right, Emma, think. You’ve been in bad situations before.” She takes stock of the room, oddly neat. There are rolled maps carefully organized on a shelf, a scarred table and several chests by the walls. There’s plenty of light, though its source appears to be entirely made up of hanging lanterns.

 

He’s not lying about being on the water – Emma has been on the sea a handful of times and recognizes the pitch and shift of the floor beneath her…not to mention the faintly queasy sensation in her stomach.

 

Plus, he did haul her aboard what appears to be a rather old ship, not entirely unlike the ones in Boston Harbor the tourists visit in droves. But what is he _doing_ with one under his apparent command, sailing off into choppy waters with her along as unwilling cargo?

 

“Obviously, kidnapping. He told you as much.” Emma squeezes her eyes closed, hugging the damp coat around herself in a futile effort to get warm. “Happy fucking birthday to me.”

 

The door opens, once again admitting her captor. He’s got a stack of neatly folded, somewhat familiar fabric in his hand, which he sets down on the table before leaning back against the door, regarding her through sinfully long eyelashes.

 

It’s shame he’s such an attractive man, his dark good looks the sort that would make for an evening of fun in other circumstances. She’ll admit, he does look a little bit foolish in the getup he’s wearing, though it’s at least of high quality. Does it make him more or less crazy to be running around in something other than a Party City knock off costume?

 

Maybe he’s in a play and he’s having a nervous breakdown, run off in costume, fancied himself a pirate. She’s heard of stranger things.

 

“Are you off your meds? Is that it?” she demands, refusing to be cowed by his behavior.

 

“Meds?”

 

“Medication. For your obvious mental problems.”

 

He lifts an eyebrow at her, and much to her irritation, looks _amused_. “Now that you mention it, it has been a bit long since I’ve had a nip.” She stares in disbelief as he pulls a battered flask from an inner pocket, popping the cork and taking a long pull from it before holding it out to her.

 

She eyes the bottle, more than a little tempted to take him up on the offer. It’s been a long day, and a bit of liquor could go a long way, but she has to keep sharp if she has a prayer of getting out of this.

 

“You are unbelievable.”

 

“Aye, I am that and so much more,” he agrees easily. Turning his back to her, he crosses the room with three easy strides. Emma stays where she is, irritation rising fresh as he easily sways with the rocking of the ship.

 

She’s trying very hard not to throw up in front of him.

 

“Lass, you keep on standing there dripping all over my quarters, and I’ll be taking that as an invitation to help you dress.” Killian offers her a leer over his shoulder before flinging open one of the trunks lining the walls.

 

With waning regard for the woman behind him, he strips off first the vest, then the shirt, carefully hanging both from a peg in the wall to dry.  There’s just something fun about pushing her buttons. His back is to her, but he can hear the sharp intake of breath from her, a tiny gasp that makes him wish – badly – he had procured the noise from her by other, more pleasurable means.

 

Killian turns to face his prisoner, a wicked smirk curling his lips. He’s fully aware he cuts an attractive figure stripped to the waist, tanned by his days in the sun. The leather pants have earned him plenty of attention from the lasses before – it’s a good bet Emma Swan won’t be any different.

 

 

“If you’re going to go the rest of the way, don’t let me stop you. Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she tells him, a smirk of her own following. It’s the last thing he expects from her, but there’s a hint of pink in her cheeks, and she’s still got her chin up. It reminds him of another woman, a woman whose spirit captured him like nothing else ever has.

 

A dangerous memory.

 

“Terribly ungentlemanly to strip before a lady.”

 

“Oh, now I’m a _lady_?” She scoffs, rolling her eyes and folding her arms over her chest defensively. “Seriously, you’ve had your fun. What do you want with me?”

 

“For my part, a tumble between the sheets would be quite enough.” She can’t tell if he’s serious, the way he’s leering at her with his bright blue eyes alight with mischief. “Listen, love, it’s nothing personal. You seem lovely. But I’ve been sorely missing a certain appendage for several hundred years and I’d like to get it back, exact my revenge on the nasty crocodile who took it. You’re the price.”

 

Emma stares at him, and much to his shock, bursts out laughing. She laughs with her entire body, even her shapely legs quivering as she struggles to get control of herself. “I get it now! Captain Hook, right? The age, and the hook, and the crocodile, and the ship. Amazing. I don’t know who put you up to this, but really, enough is enough.”

 

“So you’ve heard of me?” His arrogance outweighs his bafflement that her response to being kidnapped is to laugh in his face, especially since she seems to have heard of his reputation.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Is Peter Pan around here somewhere, too?” She makes a big show of wandering the cabin, lifting lids to trunks and peeking under the table. “No? Just you?”

 

“You shouldn’t wish that vile beast’s presence. You’re much better off in the hands of a pirate.”

 

“Yeah, because some kid who doesn’t want to grow up is so terrifying.”

 

“Neverland is a dark place, lass, and Peter Pan the darkest of all. Pan is the most treacherous villain I’ve ever met.“

 

“You’re unbelievable.”

 

“So you’ve said.”

 

“Whatever. Get out. I’m going to sleep. When I wake up, I expect you’ll have gotten tired of this joke.”

 

“You think to banish me from my own quarters?” Killian shakes his head at her like she’s a foolish child. “I think not. I’ll give you a moment’s privacy to change out of your wet things, but I’ll not be removed so easily.”

 

Emma simply holds his stare, not moving toward the clothes he’s brought. This dress isn’t exactly comfortable, and the damp wool is itchy, but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

 

“Stubborn and beautiful. Lovely.” Killian crosses the room again, picking up the clothes he’s deposited on the table. “Here. You need to get dry. Mr. Smee will be along shortly with something hot to eat. They’ll be no bath in this storm, but once you’ve got some sleep we can see to it. Weather like this, we’ll be lucky if it clears before the night is out.”

 

She doesn’t take the clothes instantly, nor does she bother to meet his gaze. Instead, her attention goes to the window across from them, rainwater pouring down the leaded glass. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, and she can’t suppress the shiver that follows.

 

“It was barely raining.”

 

“Aye, on shore. The seas are a bit of a trickier business.”

 

She finally takes the clothes from him, held out like a peace offering. The fabrics are surprisingly soft under her hands, and it _would_ be nice to get warm.

 

“Don’t bother trying to bar the door,” he tells her as he stands beside it, ready to exit. “I’ll be just outside.”

 

“Just go _away_. Go far, far away,” she demands, the fierceness returning to her voice.

 

“A man spends a long time at sea without female companionship. My crew has been known to lack...well, to lack. No matter. I will stand guard for you, my lady.” With a wink, he disappears to the other side of the door. It slides closed quietly, the whisper of the latch a gentle sound barely discernible over the creak of the ship.

 

Emma stares at the door for a long moment, her emotions over taxed and beginning to spin. “Keep it together,” she tells herself sternly, sparing another moment to close her eyes and force her breath to steady.

 

Her hands are shaking.

 

She’s shocked to find the bundle of clothes are a mixture of items from her own closet and things which are plainly his, thick wool socks and a soft, flowing shirt. It’s like she’s stepped into another world, with corsets and _pirates_.

 

The man wears more jewelry than she ever has.

 

With a sigh, she shakes out the pants he’s left her, thankfully a pair of her own jeans. How – and why – he chose to take them is a puzzle for another time. She ignores the corset – ha! – and pulls the shirt over her head without undoing the buttons. It’s big on her, but the looseness is a relief after being poured into that red dress.

 

She ignores that it smells faintly of him.

 

Her relief is short lived, Killian opening the door with barely a knock of warning. The man she presumes to be Mr. Smee is with him, a tray precariously balanced upon his meaty hands. In spite of her anger and the pitching of the boat, and her desire to go to sleep and wake up to find out who thought this joke was a good idea, Emma can feel her mouth water at the smell.

 

She hasn’t eaten all day. She didn’t even get to enjoy her damn cupcake.

 

“You sure you won’t be needing anything else, cap’n?” Mr. Smee stands by the door, waiting. Emma can feel his eyes on her, roaming, but she’s surprised by the sharp command to be gone that leaves Killian’s mouth and sends the man scurrying.

 

“So it’s all right for you to stare at me, but not anyone else.”

 

He takes a seat at the table, gesturing to the empty sea across from him. “Pirate I may be, but I’ve a gentlemen’s honor. Mr. Smee thinks a bit muchly of himself at times, forgets his place.”

 

“That was not my question.”

 

“Aye, but that was my answer.” Killian‘s laughter rings out across the room at her shocked expression. Turning to the meal, he tears a hunk of bread from the loaf and dunks it into the thick fish stew. Smee isn’t much in the way of manners or smarts, but the man makes a decent enough stew, and the waters of this realm have proved bountiful.

 

“And do you have more answers, _Hook_?”

 

Killian says nothing, but his thoughts burn in his eyes. He wants to shut that pretty little mouth of hers up, and he wants to do it badly. He could think of many more enjoyable employments for the full lips and delicate hands, but he doesn’t dare touch her. Too much is at stake to get caught up in the charms of a pretty lass.

 

Even if her fire makes her all the more attractive.

 

But no, no that won’t do. He’s many things, Killian Jones, but he’s never forced a woman and he never will. It’s one thing to goad her, to tease her, but he won’t lay a hand on her.

 

Until she asks him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally blown away by the response to this. It's sort of terrifying to try something outside of my usual comfort zone, so it's so nice to see the positive reception. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

The remainder of the meal passes in silence, the occasional roar of thunder rumbling over the creaking wood and churning ocean. Emma finishes her stew, surprised to find her stomach settling somewhat with the food, in spite of the choppy water.

 

She expects the madman pirate, actual name still unknown, to needle her further, but he simply waits until she’s finished eating before getting to his feet. Without a glance or word, he gathers the empty bowls himself and heads for the door.

 

“Should you require anything further for the evening, you will find me with the crew. Good night, my lady.” The sudden formality throws her, and in spite of herself, she stops him as his hand hits the door.

 

“You’re just leaving?” It’s a sudden shift from earlier, when he refused to be thrown out of his own quarters, as he so smugly told her. She’s not exactly complaining, but it’s odd.

 

Life has taught Emma to question odd.

 

His lips curve into a sensuous smile, his tongue slowly licking his bottom lip in a nearly obscene manner. “Would you prefer I stay?”

 

“No!” Emma snaps back the response, struggling for control. She really doesn’t want him around. She needs time to think, to figure out what the hell she’s gotten herself into this time.

 

And how she’s going to get out of it.

 

“Where am I supposed to sleep?”

 

Killian stares back in silence for a long moment, devilish comments dancing across the tip of his tongue. Reminding himself to have some manners, he forces his expression into one of the utmost civility. “Why, in the bed would be my suggestion,” he says without a hint of a leer.

 

“But...” She bit her lip, her eyes darting to the rather large bed tucked away in the far corner of the room. Killian follows her gaze, wishing with all his might that he would be slumbering the night away upon that featherbed instead of a crewman’s hammock, but he knows he’s pushed her to her limits.

 

She’s got fire, this Emma Swan, that scares the evil queen enough to make a bargain with a pirate, but she’s also just a girl. A girl he’s ripped from her home on her bloody birthday no less. He remembers the sadness in her eyes in her quarters, the way the flame of the tiny candle danced in her eyes, and he doesn’t have it in him to tease her any further.

 

When she doesn’t say anything, he allows himself only a quiet laugh. “I’ve told you, I’ve got my honor. I have no chamber for you, lass, so by day we shall have to share. The bed is yours. I sleep with the crew for the duration of your stay aboard the Jolly Roger.”

 

Her mouth gapes open at the unexpected words and soft tone, but before she can whisper her thanks or say anything further, the infuriating man is gone.

 

Emma stares at the closed door for several long seconds before slamming her jaw shut. The unexpected softness in him, in the oddest moments, it doesn’t make much sense.

 

None of this makes any sense.

 

At least she’s finally alone. She turns her attention to the far wall where several small windows look out. The roll of the ship feels real enough, but they can’t _actually_ be out to sea.

 

Outside the glass, black waves roil, white foam spitting up into the lashing torrents of rain. Water surrounds her, the rain and sea battling with lightning for a spectator. A shiver of fear runs through her at the sight – the storm only seems to be getting worse.

 

It’s real, all right.

 

The contents of the cabin are no help in solving the riddle. She finds nothing out of character; maps, charts and weapons abound. More personal touches are scattered throughout, but a fair number of items are beyond her recognition. Even the trunks fall victim to her search, though they contain nothing more interesting than men’s clothing and an impressive quantity of rum. It’s all arranged with surprising neatness, and the fabrics are soft under her inquisitive fingertips.

 

It doesn’t escape her notice that the shirt against her own skin matches the ones folded so neatly, or that the same faint smell of salt and liquor cling to the garments she wears.

 

In frustration, she slams the trunk shut, leaning back against the wall to keep her balance. It’s as if she’s grabbed hold of a stray piece of yarn, and with each tug, more and more of the sweater unravels. Instead of finding answers upon the threads, Emma begins to wonder if she’s losing her mind.

 

Helplessness and frustration threatening to overwhelm her, she finally gives in to the press of fatigue. The bed, in spite of being _his_ , looks far too tempting to resist. It has been a long day, and the emotions of it all weigh on her. If there has ever been a time she wants to simply let the urge to cry consume her, this is it.

 

But Emma prides herself on being made of sterner stuff. She is not a woman given to hysterics, and she’s been through worse.

 

Besides, for all she knows, this is a bad dream. She’ll go to sleep in this ridiculous bed, and she’ll wake up in her own, hungover and twenty-eight and alone.

 

The bed is soft and warm, and the rocking of the ship becomes a comfort instead of a menace, lulling her into a restless sleep. But her dreams are dark, twisted things that wake her with a start mere hours later.

 

It’s with great dismay she realizes she’s still trapped in this nightmare.

 

The lamps have burned out, leaving the room faintly lit by weak moonlight filtering through the window. Moonlight! Emma breathes a shaky sigh of relief that the storm seems to have passed. The seas are calmer, the ship’s movements less violent as she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

 

She pauses, listening for sounds of movement. The dreams left her heart pounding and her mind frantic. The cabin feels suffocating, and she doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t care about what strange world she’s stumbled into or Hook’s threats, whoever he really is.

 

She has to get out of this room.

 

The sky is pitch-black overhead, clouds still hanging low. None of the crew seem to be about, a quietness settling over the night. Emma is grateful for the solitude as she finally finds her way to the top, her lungs greedily sucking in the fresh air.

 

She’s much less pleased to see nothing but water in every direction.

 

Taking advantage of the solitude on deck, she goes to the rail. It’s no help – there’s only a horizon that’s endlessly filled with black ocean.

 

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

 

Emma nearly jumps out of her skin at the unexpected sound of his voice. She didn’t see him in the darkness, blending in as he is with his dark hair and long coat.

 

Killian is behind her, lounging against the ship’s wheel. He’s been watching since she came above decks, the tentative way she came on deck and her purposeful stride to the rail.

 

“I couldn’t sleep.”

 

Killian is surprised at her answer, an honest one lacking sarcasm. He’s already grown used to their barbed exchanges, but he finds the melancholy in her voice too strong to ignore. It makes him think of her eyes and that tiny candle, and that’s not going to help him bag a crocodile. “You should get back into bed, lass. Sleep will come. Long days ahead.”

 

“My name is Emma. Not lass. Not love. Not my lady. Emma.”

 

“Aye, so it is.”

 

“But you already knew that.”

 

“Indeed I did.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Oh, let’s not start that again,” he replies wryly, coming to stand beside her at the rail. Together, they watch the waves in silence, Killian unwilling to needle her any further, and Emma not knowing what to say next.

 

In the end, he’s the first to speak. “Killian Jones,” he says quietly, eyes still on the ocean. “It’s the name my mother gave me, though I’ve been called many a thing in my days.”

 

“I’m sure you deserved many names in your days.”

 

“Aye, I suppose I have.” The silence grows between them again, but it isn’t the stiff silence in which their meal was consumed. Killian sways with the motion of the ship beside her, and Emma finds there’s something oddly peaceful about the quiet night and quieter man beside her. She has no business feeling the way she does, captive aboard a ship bound for unknown waters with a madman at the helm, but her breath comes a fraction easier with Killian beside her.

 

The wind picks up again, tossing her snarled hair over her shoulder and sending a shiver through her. Killian is standing so close they’re nearly touching and notices immediately. “You’ll catch cold out here, barefoot and all. Best be getting back inside.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“Ah, this is where I belong. The Jolly Roger is my home, the sea my mistress.”

 

“You sound sad.”

 

“A man would be a fool to not be sad he’s to be robbed of your fine company.”

 

Emma keeps quiet, choosing instead to scan his face. The words never quite seem to match up with his eyes, their murky blue depths reflecting the melancholy she _knows_ lives in his words.

 

“This isn’t a joke, is it?”

 

“Afraid not, love.”

 

“It’s not a nightmare?”

 

“Wrong again.”

 

“Where are you taking me?”

 

“Our destination and my motivations will remain my own this night. I will have to ask your forgiveness for that, and much more by the end.” The words send a shiver down her spine that has nothing to do with the wind.

 

“Who sent you to take me?”

 

“As I said, love, some things will remain my own this night.”  

 

She leaves him standing at the rail, deep in thought and silent, a sentry to the night. She’ll have to get answers another time, another night, because despite her efforts, it seems that she is very much aboard a vessel with a man who fancies himself Captain Hook. If it wasn’t so ridiculous, she would probably have room to be a lot more afraid than she is.

 

It doesn’t help that when she closes her eyes, all she sees is the steely gaze of a man who has known deep sorrow.

 

When morning comes with sunlight filtering in through the windows in the captain’s quarters, Emma isn’t sure if she’s slept or not.

 

The sound of voices outside is a small comfort. The ship can’t be entirely filled with madman – can it? She needs to find a way to gain access to the crew, find a way off the damn ship.

 

Step one is getting out of bed. Emma starts to slide out from between the covers when the door bangs open. She sits back down on the edge of the bed, tense and watchful for the morning’s mystery.

 

“So the princess won’t be sleeping away the day after all,” Mr. Smee comments as he marches in with a tray.

 

“You could have knocked!” she snaps, getting to her feet, still watching him. The man seems fairly harmless, and he’s definitely afraid of Hook, Killian, whatever his name is. “And I have a name. _Emma_.”

 

“If Smee knocks, Smee can’t hold this here tray, and if Smee can’t hold the tray, he can’t knock. Will you be more interested in the knocking or the eating?” He makes no mention at all of the _princess_ comment.

 

“I’d be most interested in getting off this floating prison.”  

 

“Smee wants a barrel of rum for himself.” He grins, a mouthful of rotting teeth on display. She doubts the man needs another drop of rum for the rest of his life, but she stays silent. This one will obviously be of no help to her.

 

“Cap’n says eat,” he tells her before leaving. On the table, steam rises from the food invitingly. More interesting, though she hadn’t seen him carrying them, a pair of fine leather boots has also appeared by the table, neatly propped up beside the chair she occupied the night before.

 

The porridge Smee brought is little better than diner oatmeal, but it’s hot, and Emma is hungry, in spite of her ordeals. The roll of the ship bothers her less now, in spite of her still shaky balance.

 

Once she’s eaten, she heads for the door, the supple leather boots on her feet. She isn’t sure how, but they fit perfectly. It’s tempting to leave them, to ignore this strange gift on principle, but she doesn’t need feet full of splinters to impede her escape when the opportunity presents itself.

 

Outside her door, she finds a group of men standing about, all doing a very poor effort of appearing to look busy with one task or another. “You’re quite the sensation,” Killian drawls out, the sound of his voice enough to send the men scattering instantly. He’s leaning against the wall in an overly casual pose, a length of rope looped over his shoulder.

 

“Is that so? I would imagine your crew would be used to seeing victims of your kidnapping endeavors, since you’re the famous Captain Hook and all.” 

 

He takes several steps toward her. “Playing with fire onboard a ship is dangerous. If too much burns, your only salvation is drowning. You don’t want to drown, do you, Swan?”

 

The smile fades. He does, indeed, hold all the power. Forgetting it would be dangerous. For now. “No more than you do.”

 

“I’m hardly afraid of getting a little wet.” He licks his lip as he does it, the tone of his voice bordering on obscene as his eyes roam over her body. “Are you?”

 

She doesn’t bother answering him, rolling her eyes and pushing past him to the stairs leading above. It’s irritating to know she only gets by because he lets her, but the fact that he’s let her is a small enough accomplishment for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How excited is everyone for 4b? It's rare that I even slightly miss paying for cable but I sort of wish I had it tonight! All the CS spoilers have made me a happy shipper. Here's to coffee ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Unlike the night before, the topside of the ship is bustling with activity. Like the captain’s quarters, everything is tidy. Well, everything save the men themselves. Killian has the appearance of regular bathing, and she’d had to be made of stone not to find his figure attractive.

 

His crew on the other hand seems to be made of far less fastidious men, as dirty fingernails easily outnumber teeth.

 

Emma expects Killian to quickly banish her back below decks, or send one of his unsavory crew members to frighten her off, but instead she’s left alone when his name is called across the deck.

 

The rest of the men skirt around her, almost as if they’re afraid to come too close. The fact that anytime their eyes linger on her, they immediately race to find Killian’s reaction is only further confirmation. It’s a crushing blow to realize the men aboard are, true to his previous word, perhaps more trouble than he is.

 

They’ll be no help from that quarter, not with the way they obviously fear him. In fact, they treat him…like a pirate captain.

 

But it just can’t be true. Sure, there are still pirates left in the world, but they’re not like this. They carry automatic weapons, favor speed boats, and dress in modern clothes with modern gadgets.

 

Not like some odd combination of a reenactment and a madman.

 

The eyes on her disappear as soon as Killian joins her at the rail, one eyebrow raised in challenge at her position. She merely stares back, not the least bit concerned about her elbows on the rail as the ship sways on the water. What’s the worst that could happen? She falls in? She’s figured out enough by now to know that he doesn’t want her dead – he’ll fetch her back out.

 

From the corner of her eye, she sneaks a glance at the man, her curiosity flaring. Killian stands beside her with ease, lodged her in his cabin, and if her suspicions are correct, dressed her in his shirt. She eats at his table. What sort of prisoner, exactly, is she?

 

Valuable, for one. But what of the rest of it?

 

The question festers, irritation at the inability to obtain a straight answer from the man beside making her fingers itch to take another swing at him.

 

“Sharpening your claws upon my ship, eh?” Killian’s taunting tone draws her out of her thoughts suddenly, and the confusion must show all her face. He nods toward her hands, where sure enough her nails are nearly digging into the wood with how tightly she’s clenching her fists. “Does the sea offend you so?”

 

“ _You_ offend me,” she snaps back, snatching her hands back from the railing. “You talk in circles. You tell me you’ve kidnapped me because I have some powerful enemy, but you won’t tell me a damned thing about who this person is. I _know_ you’re not lying about it, but this whole thing is pretty unbelievable. None of this is real.”

 

“I assure you, it’s quite real.” He takes a step closer, too close, fire in his eyes. “ _I’m_ quite real, love, should you like to have a feel.”

 

“You’re disgusting.”

 

“Ah, back to the name calling.”

 

“Did you expect anything else?”

 

“No, perhaps not.” He chuckles to himself, infuriatingly. “If you’re through with it, I’ve come to request you join me in my quarters.”

 

Emma eyes him suspiciously, the politeness of his request making her overly wary. “Why would I do that?”

 

“I’ve asked so nicely.”

 

“I’m good here, thanks.”

 

He slides closer, his mouth so close to her ear she can feel the heat of his breath. “Not terribly polite of you, love. Let’s try again. You can walk yourself, or I can carry you off before the crew. Your choice.”

 

She wants to lash out, to snap something biting at him about his ability to carry a woman with only the one hand, but she knows from previous experience he is plenty capable of carrying a woman off where ever he pleases.

 

That’s how she got into this mess, after all.

 

“Fine.”

 

The urge to hit him again is becoming rapidly hard to ignore. The smirk dancing in his eyes tells her he’s taking great amusement in riling her up. “Where is it that you think I’m going to go?” she hisses, trying to put more space between them. He’s so close her arm brushes against his as they walk and she can’t _stand_ it.

 

He shrugs with an air of casualness that makes her see red. “I suppose you make a valid point, but alls the same.” He gestures with his hook toward the stairs leading back to his quarters, the sunlight glinting on the metal.

 

It doesn’t escape her that he’s purposefully chosen to use the hook and its implied threat over his perfectly good hand.

 

“Whatever.” She stomps past him, the leather boots making a satisfying amount of racket at her heavy steps as she tromps down the stairs and pushes open the door with far more force than necessary.

 

“Well?” she demands, looking around for a sign of anything amiss. “Why am I here?”

 

“Why else would a man desire a lady’s presence in the middle of the day?” The hint of a smile playing on the edge of his mouth seems to suggest he meant only to rile her, but the fire in his eyes promises it’s only a joke if she wants it to be. A shiver steals down her spine, a curious feeling settling in her stomach.

 

Not that she has any intention of giving into it.

 

“You’ve already informed me you’re not the type of low life who forces a woman, so unless you’ve changed your mind, we both know that’s not it.”

 

“Have you no sense of humor, Swan?” He shakes his head, falling into a chair and gesturing across the table for her to do the same.

 

She remains standing.

 

“Join me for a drink, lass.” He shakes the ever-present flask of rum in her direction, that smug smirk firmly in place. “Might improve your disposition considerably.”

 

“You leaving me be would improve my disposition entirely. Or better yet, tell me where we’re going. Or just let me go. This entire charade is really getting out of hand.”

 

He scowls, taking a swig off the flask anyway. He doesn’t know why he’s even doing this, trying to simply talk with her, offer her a drink, perhaps the ease of a conversation. Admittedly, he has an ulterior motive – he suspects bedding Emma Swan will make this entire detour well worth the effort.

 

But she has to become agreeable to the idea if it’s ever going to happen, and he does need to be finding _someplace_ to stash her in order to obtain his revenge. His obvious fascination with her is merely a matter of craving a dish he’s not been served before – he’ll sort that bit out with a pleasant romp and then send her on her way.

 

“Fine.” He gets to his feet, sweeping into a low bow that he just can’t help, in spite of how red her face gets when he does it. This isn’t exactly making her more agreeable, but it’s just so damn easy.

 

He knows he should leave her, let her cool down, but he can’t stop staring. Without a means of holding it back, the wind has whipped up her long, blonde hair. He wonders silently what it would be like to bury his fingers in that hair, to take his time slowly feeling every inch of each silky strand. The sight of her in the curious trousers, and his shirt wrapped around her slim body, that’s a treasure unto itself, but her hair spilling across his pillows, her body beneath his, well that’s a vision men live their whole lives without.

 

Sad lives, those.

 

“So are you going or what?” she demands when he stays silent, lost in thoughts of her and his bed and that damned hair of hers.

 

“Do you require anything before I depart?” he asks after a pause, ceasing his needling. If he wants this woman in his bed, there’s only so far he can push her. The politeness doesn’t win him any favors, either – Emma’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits.

 

“A lock for the door.”

 

“Apologies, fresh out.”

 

“Just leave.”

 

Killian chuckles at her petulant tone before making his exit. Once outside, he settles himself against the door, his long legs stretched before him. She doesn’t need to know he’ll be waiting outside the door, should she change her mind – and Killian has no intention of ever being denied entry to his own quarters.

 

Leaning his head back against the door, he drapes one booted leg over the other. Emma is a curious girl, far from what he had imagined walking back through the pouring rain in the queen’s cursed town. He probably should have known better, daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming that she is.

 

Not that she appears to know any of it. He frowns, thinking of the silent girl in the room at his back. What has her life entailed, growing up in the strange Boston realm with her parents trapped by the queen? Has she had family, here?

 

Family was important to Killian, once.

 

He’s ended lives, and he supposes he’ll end more before his final day, but he’s never done it for the simple joy of killing. Perhaps he places a mite less value on lives that are not that of himself or his crew, but that doesn’t put him on par with the queen and her curse of an entire kingdom.

 

On a small child, whose only crime was being born.

 

This ship is the only place Killian has felt welcome his entire life. He can’t help but wonder if Emma Swan has ever felt that, anywhere. There’s something different about her, some trace of magic not tapped. She’s not of this realm, no matter how much she appears to be.

 

He might have to be the one to tell her. Regina didn’t precisely tell him not to, so he doesn’t see the harm. She’ll find out soon enough who she is, why he’s got her. Perhaps answering her questions will lead to a more harmonious relationship.

 

That would be mighty satisfying.

 

It could also go well toward an improvement in sleeping quarters. The crew hammocks are woven well, and he’s slept in worse places. But after years in a warm bed, the hammock leaves much to be desired. Killian is too much of a gentleman to subject Emma to the crew hammocks, but he bloody well misses his bed. The preferable solution is of course to convince the lass to share, but at the moment he suspects he’d wake with a dagger at his throat.

 

He’s heard the tales of Snow White in the Enchanted Forest, deadly with a bow when faced with then queen’s minions. She’s never known her daughter – from his short time with the queen, he suspects she no longer knows she _has_ a daughter – but Emma seems to have taken after her all the same.

 

She’s proud and fierce and isn’t afraid to throw a punch. It reminds him of _her_ , his fingers subconsciously tracing the spot on his arm beneath his shirt where she now resides, all he’s got left of her.

 

No, it won’t do to grow soft toward Swan. He won’t betray his memory of Milah, his revenge against the crocodile, his bloody hand. Swan might prove a pleasant distraction in his bed, a bonus payment for the trouble she is, but nothing more will be allowed.

 

Killian closes his eyes, leaning back against the door with a deep sense of unease. It feels as though he’s betrayed Milah already, being kind to Swan. She doesn’t _require_ a bath or a warm bed to sleep in, or those damn boots that once belonged to Milah.

 

He just couldn’t stand the sight of her walking around barefoot.

 

He finds himself suddenly woken by the inward falling door, Emma’s amused expression greeting him. Her cheeks are red, eyes bright – she’s obviously been into the rum he left behind. Killian finds himself wondering how it is she can look so beautiful before he’s able to banish the thought.

 

“Spying through the keyhole?” she asks as he gets to his feet, entering his quarters with a look of longing toward the bed. Her words aren’t exactly slurred, but they’re not entirely clear either.

 

“Spying through a keyhole requires a keyhole to actually be in the door.” He raises an eyebrow at her, enjoying her flush more than he should have. “Mite bit rude to spy upon a lady.”

 

“I wasn’t aware that would stop you.”

 

“Perhaps you would have preferred it didn’t.”

 

“You think awfully highly of yourself, don’t you?”

 

“No reason not to.” He flashes her a grin, closing the door behind him.

 

“Is your plan to irritate me to death?”

 

“Is it working?”

 

“Listen, _Hook_. This is obviously some sort of crack plan you’ve gotten caught up in. I need answers. What the hell is going on here? Did you steal this boat from the historical society? What do you want with me?”

 

“May we retire that bloody question?” Killian snaps without thought for the words, his frustration finally getting the better of him. He’s tired of the question, tired of not knowing how to tell her the truth, or even being certain he wants that responsibly.

 

She opens her mouth again, but Killian cuts her off before she can speak, a hand clamping down over her lips the second he recognizes the sharpness in her gaze. “So help me, woman, if you ask me why once more, I will have Smee stow you in the hold.”

 

Her eyes lock with his in defiance, but he can’t help noticing how soft her mouth feels beneath his callused palm. He releases her immediately, muttering under his breath. He doesn’t even know why he remains, allowing her to rile him up. He has things to do, a ship to captain. A decision must be made on which realm to deposit her in. It won’t do to waste the day away with the likes of her. It’s clearly not getting him anywhere.

 

“Smee will provide you a midday meal. I will join you tonight. Amuse yourself however you see fit, so long as you remain out of the way. It is several day’s sail to where we journey.” He makes up the last part, a bid to buy himself some time to make a decision.

 

“And once we arrive? What then?”

 

“I believe I have declared the question portion of our conversation at an end. Good day.” Killian turns on his heal and marches out of the cabin, his hand clenched into a tight fist. He wants to hit someone, preferably with a sword. It’s been a good many days since he’s had a bit of practice, and Killian finds himself in the mood to give someone quite a good thrashing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scowly, angry Killian is always way hotter than he has any business being, isn't her? 
> 
> So I'm late to the party, but I finally got to see the episode and all the CS adorableness completely made my night. The drama on Twitter with the actors...not so much. Some people have no respect. 
> 
> Anywho, it's snowing again. This is completely irrelevant to the chapter, but for those of you who've been with me since These Nights, I thought you'd like to know. Or you know. I wanted to complain. Either way.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s an unfortunate set of circumstances for the young deckhand lingering outside the cabin door, foolish enough to be caught attempting a glimpse of the woman inside. Killian may alternate between wanting to drown the blonde and wanting to have her on the next available surface, but he doesn’t abide sharing.

 

“Have you been practicing your swordsmanship, lad?” Killian grins. A proper master at arms gave him his first lessons in swordplay, many, many years ago in another life, another realm, when he was another person, but his arm has yet to forget – and it knows just the thing to brighten his mood.

 

It doesn’t help that of all the lads to be lingering in the hall, this is the most arrogant of the lot. Fancies himself a swordsman on par with Killian. In Neverland, it didn’t do to lose crew members, so he’d left the boy to his prattling.

 

This morning is different. Killian’s mood has turned foul and the lad is in his way.

 

“Aye, sir.” The boy has the intelligence enough to read the captain’s dangerous expression. He pats the sword at his hip, offering a tentative smile. “I practice often.”

 

“Excellent. Show me.” Killian draws his blade, gesturing toward the stairs behind the now wary young man. “On deck with you. Let us see.”

 

“Sir, I...”

 

“Are you refusing an order from your captain?”

 

“No, sir, I...”

 

Killian narrows his eyes, waiting mere moments before smacking the flat of the sword against the lad’s leg. The message is clear. Slowly, he draws his sword, circling for a moment to get his bearings as they arrive topside.

 

Killian is vaguely aware of work ceasing around the deck, of the crew gathering to watch. Though his temper is legendary, the captain is not given to these sorts of displays. Justice is dispensed swiftly. This is something new and though none will voice their suspicion, it’s not hard to decipher it has a great deal to do with the blonde below decks.

 

The lad facing him now was not aboard in the days of Milah, doesn’t remember the captain’s possessiveness over the woman, the shortening of his already short temper when it comes to a woman in his quarters. This one may be a prisoner, and they may be under another’s direction, but the captain’s woman is the captain’s woman.  

 

The captain himself is too intent on his duel to notice Emma as she steps on deck, the flash of the swords drawing her attention from below. The metal flashes in the sunlight, catching her eye. She’s about to call out, to demand they stop this, but the swords clash and her breath catches in her throat.

 

She should want him dead, want him to be run through with the deadly looking sword, but something stops her from saying a word. She can’t afford to distract him. The swords are flying faster than her eyes can follow, and of all the strange things she’s seen, it’s _this_ , the obvious skill with which he wields the blade, that starts to make her wonder just what she’s been dragged into. She can’t help the small gasp that leaves her lips as the blades dance, the last stroke coming dangerously close to tender flesh.

 

Killian’s strangled curse and stagger stop the fight instantly, his sword falling to the deck with a clatter. The younger man’s eyes widened in fear, his strike against the captain a strike of bad luck as far as he’s concerned. Over Killian’s strangled curses, Emma can hear the boy’s stuttered apologies.

 

The captain doesn’t even appear to be listening. “Good show, mate!” he calls out as he lurches toward the steps, only realizing when their eyes meet that Emma is waiting atop the steps. He’s clutching his ribs, and there’s pain in his gaze.

 

She hates herself for doing it, but she can see blood on his hand. If she expects to get out of this, she’s slowly realizing she’s going to need to convince him to help her.

 

And maybe – finally – tell her what the hell is going on.

 

“You!” She points her finger at the nearest gaping crewman, a grizzled pirate with more hair on his chest than his burnt head. “Bandages and hot water to the captain’s quarters. Now.”

 

“Shush, woman. I’ll not be needing none of that.” Killian staggers past her, his hook glinting in the sunlight as he waves off the crew. “Just need to change the shirt. Allowing that idiot boy to blood his sword has ruined this one.” But Emma doesn’t hear any real threat in the words, and his skin looks far more pale than she recalls against the darkness of his hair.

 

“Water. Bandages.” Emma doesn’t take her gaze off Killian as she repeats the command, her tone one which not one of them dares to argue. The captain is a frightening man in a fit of temper, but there’s something in the cool command of the blonde that makes them move.

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Emma’s rolls her eyes at the lot of them when Killian nearly stumbles as the deck pitches. She steadies him quickly, matching his glare as she carefully wraps an arm around his waist. She doesn’t have to say anything, but Killian can see in her eyes she’ll fight like the devil if he tries to push her away.

 

“Love, if you wished me hold you close, alls you’ve got to do is ask.” He grins at her, allowing his voice to carry. He’s putting a good face on it, but he very much doubts he would even have the strength to push her away. The deckhand’s strike was lucky, but deep. Now he simply needs to get inside the safety of his quarters and stitch himself up before anyone sees how bad the wound truly is. A captain bested by his crewman isn’t one long for the job, and Killian couldn’t afford weakness. Not now. Not ever.

 

He hadn’t counted on Emma watching, on the distraction her quiet gasp could be.  

 

Once inside his cabin, she tries to guide him toward the bed, but he collapses into one of the chairs instead, attempting to wave her off as well. In response, she let out a snort. “Yes, I see. The fearsome Captain Hook needs help from no one. He’ll just bleed out all over the damned floor.”

 

Smee comes in before the captain can respond, steam rising from water in a bowl in one hand, a pile of clean linen bandages in another. “That’ll be all,” Killian snarls as soon as the man enters, Emma hurrying to take the supplies before Smee is banished. “Take those back with you! I have no need of them!”

 

Emma rolls her eyes, shutting the door behind him, and turning her gaze back to the stubborn man bleeding all over himself. “You are an impossible man.”

 

“Aye, I won’t deny it. Now out you go.”

 

“Like hell.” She shoots him the fiercest glare she can manage before reaching for his shirt. “Now let me see.”

 

“Ah, so you wish to undress me. Why didn’t you just say so, Swan?”

 

The look she offers him is filled with loathing. “Shirt.”

 

Killian is rapidly losing energy, and he recognizes the fierce determination in Emma’s eyes. He can’t understand this woman with her fierce moods. “Why are you doing this?” He can’t help but ask the question, in spite of hating the very sound of the words leaving his lips.

 

“I believe you declared questions over for the day,” she responds sweetly, parroting his own words back to him. He’s too stunned to gather up an intelligent response other than to scowl, but Emma’s out of patience.

 

She reaches out, tearing the shirt apart quickly, buttons rolling to the floor. Killian has yet to remove his hand from the wound, and there’s a brief stare down before he finally winces and allows her to inspect it.

 

Emma swallows a gasp at the sight of the wound, immediately trading the sodden shirt for a press of clean linen. She’s no doctor, but that’s a gash in need of stitching if she’s ever seen one. She isn’t sure how the man had even managed to walk off the deck under his own power.

 

“I don’t suppose you have disinfectant on this damn thing.”

 

“Disen-what?”

 

“Something to clean the wound. It needs to be stitched.”

 

Killian sighs, waving his hook toward one of the trunks. “Rum. Bloody waste of it, but it’ll do.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes, but she gets the rum anyway, eying him with some concern as she pours a measure out onto the clean bandages. Pouring straight liquor into a wound is going to sting – considerably.

 

“Wait.” His hook settles on her wrist, his eyes focused on the rum. “A bit of that will help the process along nicely.”

 

“So you’ve said.” She holds up the cloth, gesturing to his bleeding chest, his hand still clamped over it.

 

“Not for the bloody cloth, Swan. For me. Give it here.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Aye.” He grins up at her, standing over him where he’s sprawled in his chair. “Afraid I’ll need some assistance from you, love, what with my hand occupied.”

 

“You realize the longer you spend trying to irritate me, the more you bleed all over yourself.”

 

“Then you best be getting on with it.”

 

She can’t help rolling her eyes again, but she holds the flask to his lips anyway. There’s something nearly scandalous about the way he stares at her, all wide blue eyes and false innocence beneath thick eyelashes.

 

Her gaze drops from his, unable to stand the strangely intimate feeling it brings on, being so close to him like this. It’s then that she notices the script on his arm, the curve of a woman’s name.

 

“Who’s Milah?” she asks as she pulls the flask away from his lips, capping it and setting it back on the table.

 

“What?”

 

“On the tattoo. You’ve got her name tattooed on you. Don’t play stupid.”

 

“Someone from long ago,” he finally answers, watching as she peels back his fingers, inspects the torn skin.

 

“Where is she?” Emma asks, dumping another splash of rum on the cloth in her hand before leaning in to press it against his ribs.

 

“She’s gone.” His breath hisses through his teeth as she presses the rum-soaked cloth to the wound, blood and liquor mixing together to run down his chest. “What about you, darling? Been in love before?”

 

“No.” Her answers is fast, too fast as far as he’s concerned.  

 

“You’re afraid to talk, to reveal yourself. Trust me. It would go a lot smoother if you do.”

 

“Smoother? I’m stuck on a floating prison ship with, by all accounts, a delusional madman who thinks he’s Captain Hook with a crew of criminals. Why should I tell you anything about my life?”

 

“No worry, love. You’re a bit of an open book. Spent many years in Neverland, home of the Lost Boys. They all share that shame look in their eyes. An orphan’s an orphan. Love’s been rare in your life, hasn’t it?”

 

Emma thinks back, back to days she wishes she didn’t remember. A man she once trusted, a child she gave up. But that’s not any of his business.

 

“I need to stitch this. Needle and thread?”

 

“Leave it.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot. It needs stitches. Needle and thread.” He remains silent, a challenge in his eyes. “Listen, I can stand here all day while you bleed out.”

 

“You’re mighty irritating.”

 

“There.” He nods to a small box atop a shelf built into the wall.

 

“Hold this.” His hand grazes hers, purposefully, she’s certain, as he takes over pressing the bandage against the gash. She hates him for it, hates that if affects her, but she squares her shoulders and goes to fetch the needle and thread.

 

It’s a messy business, stitching up a bleeding wound. Plenty of years lacking health insurance have unfortunately not made this her first attempt at sutures – but last time she at least had proper supplies.

 

To his credit, he barely makes a sound. It could have something to do with him now having a free hand with which to guzzle his rum. But mostly, she suspects this is hardly the first time he’s been stitched up.

 

He’s got the scars to prove it.

 

“There,” she announces, tying off the last stitch and holding out the thread. “A little help?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Put that hook of yours to good use. The thread needs to be cut and I doubt you’ve got scissors.”

 

“Knife in the boot will serve you better.”

 

“So hand it over.”

 

“Bending’s a mite bit difficult at the moment, love.” The liquor has gotten to him, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright, but the words are far from slurred. “A bit of help?”

 

She crouches down, carefully sliding her hand down his leg to retrieve the knife. “While you’re down there…”

 

“Finish that sentence and I’ll put this knife to better use.”

 

“After you’ve gone through the trouble of stitching me up?”

 

She glares at him, yanking the knife against the thread with a bit more force than strictly required. He winces, but doesn’t say another word, merely takes another swig from his flask.

 

“Tell me,” she finally says, sliding the other chair closer and folding her arms over her chest. “The truth. I’ll know if you lie. Why did you take me?”

 

He sighs, leaning back in his own chair and tipping the flask into his mouth to empty the last of it. “No good will come from me telling you the tale, but I suppose you’ve a right to know.”

 

“Well?”

 

“Well, love, it all begins once upon a time…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double chapter tonight since I'm stuck home in the snow and ice and crabby about it.


	6. Chapter 6

“Once upon a time? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

“Do you want to hear the tale or not, lass?” He gives her a look filled with dramatic weariness. “I’m a wounded man, after all. May not make it to the end if you continue to vex me so.”

 

“Fine. Go on.”

 

“Thank you, darling.” It’s only her self-control that keeps her from removing the smirk he wears forcefully. She’s yet to replace the knife, after all. Just because she logically has come to terms with needing him alive and well to get her off this damn ship doesn’t mean it isn’t tempting to hold the blade to his throat and demand her release.

 

If only they weren’t miles out to sea.

 

“Where was I? Ah, yes. Once upon a time, there was a realm known as the Enchanted Forest. One thing led to another, like many a tale, but Snow White and Prince Charming came to rule the land.”

 

“Snow White? You’re telling me more fairy tales?”

 

“That’s the bloody point, love, if you would shut up long enough to hear the tale.”

 

“Please, by all means….” Emma waves her hand, rolling her eyes and wishing desperately that damn flask still had some rum in it. She would love a drink right about now.

 

“Snow White and Prince Charming made themselves an enemy of the Evil Queen. A likely tale of he said, she said. I myself kept out of it, other concerns.” He holds up his hook, his expression shifting from the mischief he’s been taunting her with to a more pensive gaze. “I found myself in the Evil Queen’s castle one eve, on the tail of a plot sure to assist me in my revenge against the crocodile.”

 

“Who ate your hand?”

 

“Must you interrupt, lass? I’m getting to it.” He narrows his eyes at her, curious. “Just what tale is it you’ve heard about me?”

 

“You usually come with a bad perm and a floppy hat.”

 

“Haven’t the faintest idea what a perm is. Never been one for hats.”

 

“Whatever. I don’t remember the whole thing. Chasing Peter Pan, crocodile eats a clock, eats your hand. Tick tock.”

 

“Your realm is quite strange.”

 

“So?”

 

“The Dark One took my hand. I took his wife first, so he saw it a fitting punishment. Right after he killed her.” Emma’s been watching him carefully the entire time he’s been telling this tale, struggling to hide her growing alarm.

 

He hasn’t lied once.

 

But there’s something about this particular statement, an ancient grief reflected in his eyes, an old hurt that runs deep. “Milah,” she whispers, the name slipping out without her meaning to allow it.

 

“For someone who’s never been in love, you’re quite perceptive, aren’t you?”

 

“Maybe I was in love…once.”

 

She can’t look away this time, his eyes locked on hers, endless oceans reflecting an endless forest of questions. “Emma…” He whispers her name, a longing in it she can’t pretend she doesn’t hear.

 

But she doesn’t want to hear it – doesn’t want to even entertain letting him lull her into trusting him with his beautiful eyes and soft words. “So, the Dark One?”

 

Her brusque response does its job, breaking the spell between them. “The Dark One is a sorcerer, a powerful one. He wasn’t always. When his wife left him, he was but a coward, a deserter of the Ogre Wars.

 

“He took my hand once he became the Dark One. Ripped Milah’s heart straight from her chest, all for the crime of no longer wishing to be shackled to a coward. So in my grief, I traveled to Neverland, to make use of its…properties…to plan my revenge.

 

“Neverland is a tricky place to escape. It took a deal of time, but I managed it. Once I had, I heard word the crocodile found a new love. I vowed to take her from him as he took Milah from me.”

 

“You set out to _kill_ her?”

 

“I didn’t kill her.” It’s not a direct answer to her question, but it will have to do. “She was in the Evil Queen’s castle, taken prisoner. The Dark One made many enemies in his time, and the Queen sought to keep the girl to extract her revenge.

 

“I was caught in my endeavor, and the Queen offered me a deal. I fetch her mother; she gives me passage to a land without magic – a land in which the Dark One would be reduced to his formerly cowardly self. There, I would have my revenge for all he took from me.

 

“ _This_ , Swan is the land without magic. Your realm. But you weren’t born here – you were born there, in the Enchanted Forest.” He pauses, looking her directly in the eye as he says it. “You are the child of Snow White and Prince Charming.”

 

“You’re not lying,” she whispers to herself, too many thoughts running through her mind at once to decipher a single one. “You’re not lying, but you _have_ to be lying. Just because you believe it, that doesn’t make it true. This is impossible. I was abandoned as a baby on the side of highway. I grew up in _foster_ homes. I don’t have parents.”

 

“They sent you to this world ahead of the curse, to escape its grasp. You being the Savior and all.”

 

“The Savior?”

 

“Aye. The Dark One told of a prophecy.”

 

“A prophecy? You’ve got to be kidding. Whatever. Where do you come in?”

 

“Afraid you won’t much like it.”

 

“Yes, because this has all been wonderful so far.”

 

“I failed to retrieve the Queen’s mother, so she sent me and the crew back to Neverland ahead of the curse. We’ve been there, the last twenty-eight years…until she summoned me back for the purpose of retrieving you.”

 

“Retrieving me? _Why_?”

 

“You’re the Savior, darling.” He says it simply, with the ghost of his usual smirk, but when Emma’s expression doesn’t change, he continues on. “The prophecy says you’re the key to breaking the bloody curse the Evil Queen has been holding onto since you were but hours old. So she wishes you gone from this world.”

 

“You’re going to kill me?” There should be panic in her voice, but there’s not. It’s a cool, calm question, and that rattles Killian more than it should.

 

“No, Swan, I’ve no intention of doing you harm. My task is to transport you to another realm, one where you’re not capable of breaking the curse.”

 

“Another _realm_?”

 

“Aye, lass. I haven’t quite settled on which, but that’s where we’re bound.”

 

“And there’s something in it for you, I take it? Pirate and all.” She’s bitter as she says it, not entirely surprised by the direction this tale is taking. He believes his story entirely, which means this has to be the truth – or some version of it he’s concocted. But the fact that she’s a pawn in someone else’s game once again, well, that’s just not that surprising.

 

“Aye. She’s offered me back my hand.” He holds up the hook, tilting it to catch the light. “Useful as this may be, it would be much more satisfying to exact my revenge with my own _hands_.”

 

“So that’s your life? You kidnap women in exchange for murder?”

 

“I will have my revenge, Swan.”

 

“Your story is utterly ridiculous.”

 

“She has your son. In her cursed town, she has your son.”

 

“How do you…” The air feels like it’s been ripped from Emma’s lungs, making it impossible to breathe. “You can’t possibly…”

 

“I saw a likeness of the lad. He looks a bit like you.”

 

“So…you’ve said my _son_ is in a cursed town with an Evil Queen? And I’m the answer to undoing the curse?” He nods, watching her carefully. “You’re despicable,” she spits out, standing so suddenly her chair tumbles over behind her. “You don’t care who gets hurt along the way, who you have to use, as long as you get your precious revenge! It won’t bring her back, you know. It won’t solve _anything_.”

 

“You don’t understand.”

 

“I understand perfectly fine. Someone wronged me, once. But if I saw him again now…” Tears are rising in her eyes, tears she doesn’t want to cry, not ever, but definitely not in front of this man. “If I saw him now, revenge is the last thing I’d be after.”

 

“Well, doesn’t that just make you the perfect choice for a Savior.”

 

“Go to hell,” she snaps, turning for the door. There’s little room to get away, but she won’t stay here, with him.

 

And he lets her go, because he knows it as well as she does, there’s no escaping the Jolly Roger.

 

There’s no escaping him.

 

She goes above deck, not surprised when the crew eyes her curiously but stays away. The relative solitude is a balm on her frayed nerves.

 

His story is preposterous, but he _knows_ things. He knows about her son. He knew her name. No one knows about her son beyond the women in the jail with her, and he’s made no mention of any of them.

 

She’s been able to tell her entire life when someone’s lying. Either her superpower is broken, or he’s really not lying.

 

Emma’s seen a lot of strange things in her days, but this…this takes the cake. She doesn’t want to believe it, but it’s all making a strange sort of sense, given the ship she’s on, the crew around her, the man below decks. One madman is entirely possible, but an entire crew of them?

 

It seems unlikely.

 

And if he _is_ telling the truth, her son is in the grips of an Evil Queen…and she has parents. Actual parents, a mother who gave birth to her. Who gave her up, just like she gave up her son.

 

But she’s got a second chance with her son – if she can just get to him. Whatever grains of truth may live in the rest of the fanciful tale is a separate matter – but she believes that this man knows where her son is, and that the women who has him is responsible for her circumstances. _That_ she believes, and _that_ makes her want to fight.

 

She’s seen emotion in the pirate, seen the pain in his eyes that comes when he talks about Milah. Villain or not, he loved her. And if he was capable of loving her, then somewhere, somewhere inside, there is a man capable of good.

 

She just has to find a way to make him see that.

 

He’s asleep when she enters the cabin once more, his features more relaxed than she’s ever seen them. He looks so innocent in sleep, younger, more like a man she could fall for, if she were foolish enough to let herself.

 

She crosses the cabin, sitting down as slowly as possible on the edge of the bed in an effort not to wake him, but it’s of little use. His eyes blink open, his entire body tense until he sees it’s her sitting there.

 

“Swan! Come to join me in bed at long last?” He grins up at her. In spite of being half-asleep, his leer doesn’t suffer.

 

“You and I, Hook, I believe we understand each other. Don’t let anyone get close. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t _love_ anyone or anything.” She speaks slowly, carefully, making sure he’s listening.  

 

“Worked nicely so far.”

 

“Except that’s not entirely true. You _loved_ Milah. And I…” Her voice is shaking, and she stops, takes a breath to steady herself. “I loved my son’s father. I gave my son up because I couldn’t look at him every day and see his father, see the man who hung me out to dry. I had to give my son better, had to give him a chance.”

 

Killian can’t explain it, the sudden rush of anger he feels at the statement, the urge to find this man and teach him a lesson or two. He’s known for some time there’s secrets she rather leave buried, old hurts – he wasn’t lying about the look in her eyes mirroring that of the Lost Boys. He’s been an orphan himself, after all. He would know. But there’s something about setting up a woman – especially a woman like Emma – that just rankles.

 

“I have been alone my _entire_ life. But you’re telling me now, my _son_ , he’s in a cursed town with an evil queen for a mother – and you’re just willing to let her _win_? That my parents, his grandparents, are right there but can’t do a damn thing for him, don’t even _know_ he exists? You want to let this go on, for what? For the ability to murder a man who killed his own wife? It’s hardly a way to honor her memory.”

 

“What would you have me do, Swan?”

 

“Help me! Take me to this town, this cursed place. _Help me_ get my son back.” She ignores the bit about the curse, because whatever is going on with that, she’s not sure what to think. But her son, the child she gave up, _that’s_ real enough. And she might not know a thing about being a mother, but if the woman who has her child now is the sort that hires kidnappers, Emma _has_ to be able to do better.  

 

“And give up my revenge? Simply because you’ve asked me to? Have you got a way to five me back by hand?”

 

“It’s the right thing to do,” she whispers, her hand finding his without her consent or knowledge. She doesn’t even realize she’s done it until their fingers are woven tightly together. “Because somewhere, you’re still Killian Jones. You weren’t born a pirate.”

 

He doesn’t answer her right away, but his eyes never leave hers. The sleep is gone from them, but in its place, there’s an array of emotion – a fierce longing, but also a trace of fear, a trickle of uncertainty.

 

“I’ll think on it, love. In the meantime….” He gives her hand a hard tug, sending her tumbling down on the bed beside him. She’s about to protest, but he cuts her off, his hook resting against her lips.

 

“You’ve done a dangerous thing today, Swan. You’ve ordered about the captain of a pirate ship in front of his crew. Weakness is not tolerated aboard this vessel, and that applies to the captain as much as the rest. You will remain in these quarters this night, with me. And on the morrow, we will let the crew believe whatever they like about those circumstances.”

 

“You…you want them to believe that I’ve _slept_ with you?” She stares back at him incredulously in the dim light. It’s like he’s flipped a switch in the seconds between promising to think on her request and informing her of her evening plans.

 

“Aye, that is the goal.” He flashes her another of his smirks, his eyes roaming over her body, lingering on her chest, where a button has come undone in her tumble. “Should you like to make it a reality, love, I assure you, my other appendages are in fine working order.”

 

“I can’t believe you.”

 

“Aye, but you can, love, but you can. After all, we _understand_ each other.” He slides further across the bed, his breath catching with the movement. “Get some sleep, Swan. We’ve much to decide in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whether she believes it or not, Emma's got the truth now. What she does with it.....


	7. Chapter 7

 

Killian feels himself stirring out of sleep long before he wishes to wake. The rum did a fine job previously numbing the searing pain of the gash in his side, but it’s long worn off. He’s had worse, much worse in fact, but a sword to the side is never pleasant.

 

Without opening his eyes, he winces, tentatively touching the neatly bandaged wound. Aye, a liability in front of the crew that woman –but the scar will be far less ugly than had he wielded the needle and thread himself.

 

As awareness steals over him, he recalls he’s in his bed, shirtless and without his boots. It takes a moment to notice the weight beside him on the mattress. She’s trying to make herself small, nearly pressed to the very wall, but there she is. A man pretending to be asleep always gives himself away in one manner or another, and Killian figures it has to be the same with women, so he listens carefully for a long moment before stirring.

 

Not that he’s ever found himself in bed with a woman who had any desire to be asleep, before.

 

Cracking open his eyes, he can’t help but groan. The room spins in a most unwelcome manner, the rocking of the ship only adding to the viciousness of his hangover. He eyes the empty flask on the table with scorn, wishing he’d had the forethought to save a bit for the morning. Certain appearances will have to be maintained with the crew, and rising to the occasion is going to require a stiff drink.

 

Luckily, dawn has yet to break. Killian slowly draws himself from the bed, pressing the bandage against his side as he stands. Unsurprisingly, blood is already leaking through, in spite of Emma’s fine stitches. He grits his teeth against the pain, trying to move quietly and avoid waking her.

 

Staying in that bed with her is all he wants, but he has no time for that. He refuses to spare her another glance, the temptation of her blonde hair spilling over his pillows too high. Killian is a stubborn man, but even his will has limits.

 

He can’t believe that after the story he’s told her, the thing she has come away with is that he once loved a woman, and that the mere fact of it makes her think he’ll be willing to help her save her son.

 

Give up his hand.

 

Give up his shot at the crocodile.

 

Give up his revenge.  

 

With one last longing look back at the bed and the barely visible outline of Emma’s sleeping form, Killian slips from the room. He needs fresh air, the spray of the sea on his face, and a good swallow of rum to feel more like himself again.

 

It’s too easy to forget who he is, here, with _her_.

 

He finds Smee above decks, to little surprise. The man has a knack for knowing what his captain needs and being prepared with it. It’s what’s made him such a valuable sailor these long years.

 

Most importantly, he’s holding a bottle of rum.

 

“Queens and princesses make tricky mistresses, Cap’n.”

 

“Aye, Smee. Name me a mistress that isn’t.”

 

The man has no answer, so they remain on deck in silence, sipping at the shared rum. Killian eyes the approaching dawn, planning his charade. The crew will gather soon to begin their day, and he’s banking on Emma remaining below decks long enough for a decent crowd to form.

 

Smee makes himself scare, eventually. He’s known Killian’s moods for too many years now to ignore when the man clearly wishes to be left alone. So it is that the crew gradually comes on deck to witness their captain at his usual place, a hand on the wheel and the other curled around a bottle of rum. His expression is grim, and any mutterings regarding his surprising loss – and subsequent absence – the afternoon before are swallowed instantly.

 

The sun is full up by the time Emma makes her appearance. With Killian at the wheel and a steady wind accompanying the break of day, they are hurtling along the waves at full speed, sea spray coating the air. If he doesn’t breathe too deeply, he can almost convince himself he’s in no pain at all.

 

Emma on the other hand has a look of fury about her. When he meets her gaze, she drags her eyes pointedly to his side, his shirt hiding the stitches and bloodied bandage. He’s all but certain he’s ripped at least one of the stitches loose, but if that bloody woman starts ranting about stitches or getting back into bed, he’s going to make good on his threats to have her bound and gagged.

 

“Ah, you’re awake, love.” Killian grins at her, letting his voice carry. One eyebrow raised in suggestion, he makes a show of undressing her with his eyes. “Would have thought you needed a bit more rest.” The snickers of those closest to them make him certain he’s hit his marks.

 

“You’re the one who belongs in bed!” she hisses, stomping up the stairs to where he stands lounging against the wheel. The pose is meant to look casual and confident, but Emma has seen men good at playing hurt her entire life. She’s got a good idea of what he’s about this morning, but hell if she’s going to play along.

 

“If you wanted me to come back, all you had to do was ask.” Another grin twists into a leer, the knowing looks of the crew spreading as the captain baits her.

 

“Who says I planned to ask?” Emma’s jaw is tight and her teeth are clenched together. Her fury makes her eyes brighter, color rising in her cheeks. She’s a sight to behold in her temper, and he shouldn’t enjoy this as much as he does, but...

 

 

“Hear that, boys? The lady wants me back in her bed _now_. Well, my bed, I suppose.” Emma’s cheeks darken instantly – that isn’t at all what she meant – but Killian is satisfied he’s made his point. The crew laughs merrily, and all is forgotten regarding his failure to reappear on deck the day before. What man would with a beautiful lass to bed?

 

“Pray, excuse me while I oblige the lovely lady.” More laughter follows them down the stairs and off the deck. Killian’s arm is around Emma’s waist, and he wishes it were merely for show, but he’s had no business on that deck as long as he’s been. He can feel her trembling, and he’d be sorry for it if he’d thought for a minute she was afraid of him, but he’s learned her moods well enough to know she’s spitting mad.

 

She rounds on him the second the door to his cabin closes, shaking his grip off as he leans back against the closed door with a groan before landing a vicious slap on his cheek.

 

“Injured man here.” He groans, his head leaned back against the door as he squints at her. “Alls the same, I suggest you not do that again, love.”

 

“You’re a real bastard. You said you were going to just let them believe…and that was bad enough…but you got up there, and you _told them_ that I…” She’s in his face, her voice lowered but filled with venom. 

 

“What would you have me tell them?” he cuts in, all pretense of flirtation gone. The deadly glint is back in his eyes, and in spite of his difficulty breathing, Killian pushes himself away from the door to rise to his full height. “That I let one of the youngest members of my crew nearly run me through with a sword? That I let a woman play nursemaid like some soft idiot lad getting his first snotty nose? Have you any idea what you’ve done, ordering my men about and acting like I was about to die?”

 

“I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” It’s a testament to her strength – or stupidity – that she doesn’t back down, her face inches from his.

 

“That I will, thanks to that bit of performance. Now be a dear and assist me with this bandage. I believe I’ve popped a few of your lovely stitches.” He swallows the groan threatening to escape, stiffly making his way to a chair. It’s a process to sit, and he’s certain he can feel his skin tearing apart all over again.

 

“Do it yourself,” she spits, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back against the door he’s abandoned. She’s of half a mind to leave him here, go above decks, let him bleed all over himself.

 

But his crew is of no use to her. She’s sorted that out for herself quickly enough.

 

“Please, Swan? I promise to behave for the duration of our time together, gentleman’s honor.” He’s all sweetness again, wide eyed blue stare doing its very best to lure her into a false sense of security once again.

 

“So now you’re going to be a gentleman?” One eyebrow raised, she lets her contempt show. She pushes away from the door, crossing the room to stand in front of him, brow furrowed. The man is impossible.

 

“I’m always a gentleman.” He reaches forward with the hook, looping it around her wrist with a gentleness she wouldn’t have thought him capable of. “Please?”

 

“I do this, and then you tell me how we’re getting back to my son.” It’s a small chip to cash in, the stitches, but it’s the only one she’s got.

 

“I haven’t agreed to that.”

 

“But you have.” It’s her turn to offer up a smug smile, to slide into her chair with confidence she doesn’t truly posses, but man can she fake it.

 

“How do you sort that out, love?” It’s a mild question – his tone says it all. He doesn’t actually believe a word she’s said, but he’s going to humor her.

 

Only Emma isn’t playing his game anymore.

 

She looks directly into his curious eyes, hers filled with certainty. “If you actually meant me harm, you would have hurt me by now. You haven’t.” She can’t help the smug smile, a little dose of his own medicine. “Aside from drugging me to get me on this damn ship, you haven’t done a thing to hurt me. And telling me the truth, strange truth that it is…you didn’t have to do that. If you were truly just going to drop me off in some other _realm_ as you call it, you would have done so and been gone. You can’t make up your mind where you want to take me, because the truth is, you don’t want to take me anywhere.”

 

“That’s the tale you’ve worked out.” He’s impossible to read, his expression closing off, carefully blank, but his posture is no longer a sprawl in his chair – he’s holding himself still, a tableau of indifference.

 

“Tell me it isn’t true.” She meets his indifference with her own, faked as it is. She leans forward in her chair, her elbows on her knees.

 

He makes a noise that may be a scoff or a grunt of pain. “The stitches, lass, if you would be so kind.”

 

“Shirt.”

 

He smirks, but there’s pain in his eyes and it’s a poor imitation of his usual expression. It tugs at her, and she wishes it wouldn’t. “Always so eager to get me out of my clothes, ‘ay Swan?”

 

“You can stich it yourself if you prefer.”

 

“Oh, calm down.” He unbuttons the vest first, gingerly shrugging out of it before pulling the shirt over his head with a grimace. Emma winces at the sight of the wound, an angry red with fresh blood seeping between what used to be a row of neat stitches.

 

“You’ve made quite the mess of yourself.”

 

“Gloat after you tidy it.”

 

She rolls her eyes, rising to her feet to fetch the needle and thread from their place on a shelf. She tells herself she’s doing it just as much for her own benefit as his, but she also crosses to the trunk she knows contains a good supply of rum, scooping up a bottle.

 

“You’re an angel, love.” He grins up at her when he sees the bottle in her hand, reaching for it before she’s even had a chance to sit down.

 

“Who says it’s for you?” She holds it just out of his reach, setting her supplies down and uncorking the bottle. It smells like lighter fluid, but Emma takes a gulp anyway, the burn a sign of a haziness soon to come. She’ll need it to remain trapped with him, here, for what she suspects will be a good portion of the day.

 

“You are full of surprises.” He reaches for the bottle again, and she lets him. The gash looks to be a nasty business, and pain makes men mean – she’s seen it. Might as well let him dull his senses.

 

Perhaps she’ll get more information out of him.

 

He says nothing more as she cleans the wound and adds a few more stitches to her previous work. When she’s done, she sits back in her chair, arms folded as she watches him, well on his way to a good drunk.

 

“Hook.”

 

“Mmmm?”

 

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t care what happens to me, that we’re bound for some strange place you’re just going to dump me off.” She hopes to catch him off-guard, perhaps even a little drunk, but the hope it short lived.

 

“I have no regard for you, Swan. I care only for my revenge, for which you are a necessary evil.” The words are cool, but his face gives him away – it’s carefully blank, emotionless.

 

She’s quickly learned his carefully neutral expression is the most telling of all – he only uses it when there’s something to hide.

 

Emma’s head drops to one side, a tiny smile playing on her lips. “You’re _lying_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've said it before, but seriously, thank you so much for all of your lovely comments and messages. I've been having a crummy week and it makes me smile every time I get one of the email notifications. I'm going to try to reply to you guys this weekend, but know I do read all the messages and love you for it!


	8. Chapter 8

Killian’s eyes stare into hers, and she sees it, the moment he decides how he’s going to play it – not the way she hoped. His gaze hardens, beautiful blue eyes turning to ice. “Am I, love?” There’s a nasty bent to the words, a challenge.

She knows he’s lying – knows it as well as she knows he’s dangerous, in spite of how he calls her _love_. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, when she talks like this with him, that she’s a prisoner on his ship – that he broke into her apartment, drugged her, and carted her out to sea.

 

So she doesn’t answer his challenge. Instead, she takes the bottle of rum from the table and takes a good swig from it, fighting the urge to wince at the sharp burn of the strong spirits. Then she shrugs.

 

“Suit yourself.” She gets up from her chair, her cheeks warm with the liquor. “Drink the rum. Sleep it off. Don’t pull the stitches again. I may not be so inclined to sew you up a third time.”

 

“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

 

“Fine, then. Have at it.” She turns to go (where, she doesn’t know, but _away_ is good enough), but he stops her.

 

“Just where is it you think you might be going, Swan?”

 

She’s reached the door, one hand resting on the handle. She turns, leaning back against the wood for a brief moment to survey him. He hasn’t replaced his shirt, and he’s still in the chair, legs sprawled out and arms folded over his chest. He makes a fine tableau, that much is impossible to deny, but the hardness hasn’t left his gaze and she’s not so easily fooled.

 

“I need air. I can’t stay down here all day.” _With you_ , she tacks on mentally. She can’t be close to him now, when he’s like this, more pirate captain than man.

 

He frowns, but he doesn’t say anything else, so she slips out the door before he has a chance to issue commands she do otherwise. She doubts she’ll be left alone long, that he’ll come find her, but she may get an hour or two if she’s lucky to herself. It might be enough time to find a way compose herself.

 

It’s getting warmer as the days go on, and the sun is out today. It makes it downright pleasant sitting tucked out of the way, the sun on her face. She doesn’t even need her heavy coat.

 

What she does need is some time to think. The tale he’s told her is fanciful at best and downright insane at worst. She’d almost be more willing to believe this whole curse nonsense if it wasn’t for the biggest joke of all – she’s supposed to be the _savior_ of these poor people.

 

Emma can’t even save herself. If she’s supposed to fix this town, they’re in for a rude awakening.

 

But it nags at her, remembering him telling the tale. She’s joked to herself over the years that she’s got a superpower – she can tell when people are lying. It’s never failed her before. She’s always chalked it up to some sort of intuitive reading of body language, facial cues, so is it possible that she’s misread him?

 

It doesn’t seem likely.

 

But how else can she explain any of this? Who kidnaps someone and takes them out to sea in this day and age? It’s not like she’s stashed aboard some henchman’s yacht. The boat, the crew, the captain….they’re straight out of another age.

 

Another _realm_ , according to Hook.

 

Emma frowns at her hands, turning them over in the sunlight. Her pale skin makes it easy to trace the bluish veins hiding beneath, and there’s nothing remarkable about them. If she was born in some other place, the daughter of some mythical story, shouldn’t she be able to _do_ something? Shouldn’t she be special somehow?

 

Nothing about Emma Swan is special. She’s positive.

 

But something is definitely off about this entire situation. She wants answers, but the only man even remotely willing to give them to her is the last person she wants to be around. The crew is of no help – they’re afraid of him, more so now she thinks.

 

So she tries not to think about it. Wherever they’re going, she can’t do anything until they get there. Emma is a decent swimmer and all, but she hasn’t seen land once since they’ve been on board this ship. It’s miles – perhaps hundreds of them – to land. She’ll never make it.

 

No, she has to bide her time until she can make her escape.

 

She stretches out on the deck, the sunlight warm on her skin. It was hard to sleep the night before, desperately trying to put as much distance between herself and Hook as possible. She doesn’t think she slept more than an hour at a time, startling awake and struggling to maintain her distance until he disappeared from the bed before dawn. But here, the fresh air surrounding her, the rocking of the waves lull her into a light doze.

 

The sun is low in the sky when she wakes, the crew having left her alone while she slept. Hook is nowhere to be seen, which is no small favor from the universe. The nap has helped, some. She knows she has to maintain peace with him, and more than that if she’s ever going to get him to help her, but she couldn’t do it earlier – not for another second.

 

She’s not so sure about now, either.

 

It’s hard not to feel trapped, to not feel suffocated by the bonds of being a prisoner. She stares up at the sky, streaked with the pinks and oranges that signal another ending day and sighs.

 

Her eye catches on the rope netting running up the mast, the small lookout perch high above the deck. It may not be freedom, but it’s the furthest she can get away from all of them, so she gets to her feet and walks over to the netting.

 

No one stops her.

 

Shrugging her shoulders, Emma grabs the ropes and starts to climb. It feels good to move more than a few steps in any direction, the rhythm of putting her hands on the rope and hauling her weight up after them easy to fall into. It takes far less time to gain the platform that she would have liked, but the view is better than she could have imagined.

 

Except the part about the ocean appearing endless before her, not a soul in sight.

 

But the sunset is spectacular, a myriad of colors splashed across the sky. She slides down against the mast, hugging her knees to her chest and letting her eyes close as the wind rises, tossing her hair over her shoulders and whipping it around her face. The warmth of the day is leaving with the sunlight, and she’ll be cold soon, but it’s not enough to make her give up this moment of peace.

 

The voices of the crew get lost in the wind, and it’s the closest she’s come to being truly alone since this entire mess began. It’s easier to breathe, up here, and so she leans her head back against the mast and does just that, deep, even breaths that make her feel a little calmer.

 

She hears him before long, the sun just about to slip under the horizon when she opens her eyes. He’s cursing and grumbling, and it’s not particularly nice to think, but secretly Emma is a little pleased. It can’t be easy for him to be climbing up after her with the stitches in his side, but that serves him right as far as she’s concerned.

 

He doesn’t say anything to her right away, but settles beside her with some effort, his wince a giveaway of his pain. She waits for it – the snide comment, the lecture on knowing her place – but it doesn’t come.

 

Instead, his eyes fall on the horizon. “Always been a bit more partial to sunrise myself,” he finally says, his voice oddly soft. The words are clear, so at least he isn’t drunk.

 

“Not me. Sunrise is about the promise of a new day, a new start – and it’s always a lie. There’s more truth in the sunset. Everyone leaves.”

 

The words come out before she can stop them, and she _hates_ herself for it. It’s too revealing – too much truth. He doesn’t deserve to hear the truth from her.

 

She expects a dig, one of his snide comments and smug grins, but they don’t come. He just looks at her, his expression torn and his eyebrows furrowed by an emotion she can’t place.

 

“I go with the wind, Swan,” he finally says, gesturing to the open ocean spread before them in the waning daylight.

 

“You go where it’s most convenient for you. You’re a pirate.” Whether he’s the fairytale character come to life or not, she’s accepted this basic part of the man – piracy suits him.

 

“Aye, that I am.” He holds the hook aloft, the last rays of light making the silver appear more molten gold, a living thing. “Tell me, Swan. If I help you, what’s in it for me? Regina’s promised a hand and a crocodile. What’ve you got?”

 

“Nothing,” she says after a moment, the word simple and soft. At his surprised look, she shrugs. “I’m not going to lie to you. I can’t give you back a hand and I _won’t_ help you kill a man. So I’ve _got_ nothing. Helping me is just the right thing to do.”

 

He doesn’t speak, leaning his head back against the mast. They sit in silence as night falls over them, the voices of the crew below fading as they disappear below decks for the evening meal.

 

After a moment he produces a once-again full flask, yanking the cork free with his teeth before taking a generous swallow and holding it out for her.

 

“Is rum your solution to everything?” she snaps, waving the flask away with disgust.

 

He shrugs. “Certainly doesn’t hurt.”

 

“Is that your plan? Get me drunk? Take advantage?”

 

“I told you, Swan, I’ve no desire to force a woman. And no need.” The words are sharp, whatever softness he previously produced gone. “You should try something new, darling. Thing called trust.”

 

“You want me to _trust_ you?” She scoffs, tugging her knees closer to her chest. “Look around, Hook. There isn’t a single reason for me to trust you.”

 

He’s silent for a long moment. The sun has set, and it’s growing dark on their platform. Climbing down with be tricky, but Emma doesn’t care. She’ll sit up here all night if it means he leaves her alone, even though she’s starting to shiver from the cold.

“You said we understand each other, love, and you were more right than you know.”

 

“Oh, stop,” she cuts in, letting her eyes close again as she leans her head back. “I know what this is. Bonding with me isn’t going to work. Save it. I’m not in the mood. I’m not sure I’ll _ever_ be in a mood to bond with you.”

 

“Fine, Swan.” He stands abruptly, rising with far more grace and balance than he has any right to possess. They’re high above the deck, but still, he sways easily with the rocking of the ship. “Have it your way. When you’ve tired of shivering, you may join me for the evening meal.”

 

She lasts maybe another twenty minutes before the rising wind makes her teeth chatter.

 

He doesn’t look up when she enters, a steaming bowl of something sitting across the table from him even as he spoons up his own dinner. His eyes are on a map spread across the table, his brow furrowed in thought.

 

She hasn’t eaten all day. It’s tempting to go straight to bed to avoid the conversation she doesn’t want to have, but the ache in her belly makes up her mind. Resolving not to speak unless spoken to, she takes her place and starts eating.

 

She’s still shivering.

 

He notices, one brow raised in question as he watches her. Emma refuses to acknowledge him, resolutely dipping her spoon into the bowl and bringing the stew to her lips. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, dropping his own spoon and shoving back from the table.

 

She’s shocked when he crosses the room to the bed, pulling the quilt free and stalking back to her. With surprising gentleness, he folds the quilt around her shoulders, briskly rubbing her arm before stepping away and resuming his spot.

 

“Thank you,” she finally mutters, her eyes on the table.

 

“You’re a stubborn woman. Bloody stupid sitting there shivering like that.”

 

“I needed space. Can’t you understand that? I’ve been alone my whole life – I _told_ you that. And suddenly I’m here, with you, on this god forsaken ship and you _never_ leave me be!” Tears rise in her eyes, tears of frustration and exhaustion and a weariness she’s finding it harder and harder to fight against. “You told me the most _ridiculous_ story I’ve ever heard in my life, except you know things, like how I had a son. And I don’t know what to believe because this all looks like it’s out of a movie production, but I saw you fight with that sword and _that_ wasn’t acting.”

 

“It may be a lot to take in, love, but I assure you, it’s no tale. You’re the product of True Love – the Savior. Powerful magic runs through your veins.” He stops suddenly, cursing under his breath while his eyes widen. “Swan, that’s it. You’re the product of the most powerful magic in the Enchanted Forest. You’ve got _magic_.”

 

“Now you’ve really lost it, haven’t you? How much rum have you had?”

 

“It’s the answer, Swan.” He reaches across the table, tentatively taking her hand in his and turning his earnest gaze to hers. “You’re right, love. I haven’t chosen a destination because I don’t much like this plan. I quite like _you_ , when you’re not busy yelling at me. You remind me of…things. Things I’ve thought not possible for some time.”

 

She stares at their clasped hands, the candlelight making his rings nearly glow against his tanned skin. “I don’t understand.” But her heart is racing, because she might not understand exactly, but what she’s hearing, that’s _something_.

 

It’s a chance at getting her son back from a woman who is obviously deranged. It’s a second chance to have _family_.

 

“You have magic. You don’t know how to use it, growing up here. But _magic_ is what I need to get my hand back. So I’ll make you an offer. We return to Regina’s cursed town. You find your boy, and then you restore my hand.”

 

Emma stares at him blankly, the sudden flash of hope quickly dying a painful death in her chest. “Magic?” She shakes her head, pulling her fingers free of his. “I don’t…this is…I _can’t_ give you back your hand. And even if I could, I already told you I’m not helping you kill a man.”

 

“No need. Our bargain is simple. You get your boy. I get my hand.”

 

“This is insanity!” She takes a deep breath, fighting back fresh tears of frustration. “I don’t _have_ magic. There’s no such _thing_ as magic.”

 

“You don’t believe me?”

 

“No! Of course I don’t believe you!”

 

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” He leans back in his chair, beginning to unbutton his shirt and vest.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Relax, Swan. I’m proving a point, nothing more.” He takes a deep breath, his eyes latching onto hers with an intensity she has yet to see from the pirate captain. “Magic exists, love.”

He gasps, his entire face contorting with pain as he does it, and Emma’s too focused on that to realize he’s plunged his hand _into_ his chest until he’s holding it in front of her, a red, glowing heart on his palm.

 

“What…” She stares, unable to comprehend what’s before her. He _can’t_ be holding his own heart in his hand, a glowing thing that looks like a bad horror movie prop. “You can’t…”

 

“I told you the crocodile took Milah’s heart from her chest, crushed it before me.” He takes a deep breath, breaking eye contact to stare at the heart himself. “So I made it my business to learn to remove my own heart, for safekeeping when needed.”

 

“But you can’t live without…” Her thoughts are whirling, the throbbing glow of the lump in his hand far slower than the racing of her own heart.

 

“Aye, but I can. I’m more than three-hundred years old, love. This is all possible in a world with _magic_.” His gaze locks back onto hers. “Do you believe me now?”

 

“I can’t…”

 

“You bloody well can.” He gets to his feet, coming to stand before her. “Give me your hand.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Bloody hell, you’re a stubborn one.” He holds the heart out, nodding to her hand. “Take it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You’re going to put it back. Prove my point.”

 

“I can’t….”

 

“You _can_.”

 

She takes the glowing mass from him, squeezing lightly to test its weight. She’s shocked at the gasp the move produces from him, face contorting in pain. “Perhaps don’t try that again,” he warns her, the color returning to his cheeks as she relaxes her grip. “Gentle, love.”

 

“You could be faking.”

 

“Indeed I could, lass. But we can’t fake the next bit.” He takes a deep breath, kneeling beside her chair and watching her carefully. “Now put it back.”

 

“I don’t know how.”

 

“You just do it, Swan. You decide to put it back, and you do it.”

 

“You’re basically asking me to punch you in the chest with this thing.”

 

“Concentrate.”

 

“This is ridiculous.” She stares at him, the heart in her hand, his exposed chest. “Fine,” she says finally, turning to face him more fully. “You’re the one about to have a nasty bruise.”

 

She aims for about where a heart should reside, trying not to squeeze the lump in her hand too tightly. With a deep breath, her hand surges forward and _into_ his chest.

 

He gasps as she does it, and then she’s yanking her hand back, staring at her now empty fingers in shock. There’s no blood, nothing to suggest she’s had her hand in a man’s chest. His skin is unbroken, but she didn’t imagine it – her hand went _into his chest_.

 

“Believe me now, love?”

 

Words fail her – all Emma can do is stare at him with a mix of horror and wonder.


	9. Chapter 9

Emma’s seen a lot of strange things in her life – a lot of terrible things, too. But nothing quite compares to what’s just happened.

 

“This isn’t real.” She whispers the words to herself, a mantra that reaches almost hysterical proportions before his hand falls to her shoulder, squeezing tightly while giving her a gentle shake.

 

“Swan.” He waits for her to stop muttering to herself, one eyebrow cocked with an amused half-grin. It shouldn’t be funny – he should be worried, but old habits die hard, in spite of the growing inability to deny what this woman does to him. “We could repeat the exercise if you like.”

 

“No!” She shoves his hand away, pushing the chair back and getting to her feet. The quilt falls away, but Emma barely notices it. She starts to pace, her fingers tugging on her hair as though if she pulls hard enough, she’ll wake up from what is obviously a _very_ bad dream.

 

He takes a seat again, his eyes tracing her path across the floorboard, a strange rush of emotion flowing through his veins. Captain Hook is not a sentimental man, but there’s something about this woman that makes him feel a whole lot more like Killian Jones than he has in a long, long time. Tearing his own heart out to prove a point – bloody foolish thing to do. She could have crushed his heart in moments, killed him on the spot, but it hadn’t even occurred to him until she’d given it that curious squeeze. And even still, he’d continued the lesson.

 

Now he’s faced with a very agitated Swan, and he shouldn’t care, but it’s impossible to deny that he does. His instinct is to soothe her, but he hasn’t the faintest idea how to accomplish that. So he sits, waiting for her to tell him what it is that she needs, because the only thing she’s asked for (that he’s failed to deliver on) is space.

 

The rum helps.

 

He can feel the seas rising as the minutes tick by, a storm brewing. It’s odd – the day hadn’t spelled of a storm to come, and he’s learned to read the waves and the skies like his favorite tale, but he can feel the change in the air.

 

“What else?”

 

Her question startles him from his thoughts. She’s stopped her incessant pacing, hands on her hips and eyes filled with confusion. “What else is there?”

 

“I don’t know what you mean, love.”

 

“So magic and curses and pirates and fairy tales…you’re telling me it’s all real. What else? Vampires? Werewolves? Witches?”

 

“Never run across them myself, but I suppose so. Other realms, perhaps. I’ve visited a fair number, but crossing realms is a mite bit difficult.”

 

Outside, thunder roars across the ocean, a deep rumble that he can feel in his chest. Emma stumbles as the floor tilts with the rising sea, her hands falling on his shoulders to keep her balance.

 

He can’t help but grin up at her, her loose hair falling into her eyes and nearly brushing his cheek. “In need of assistance, Swan?” It’s too easy to loop her arm around her waist, the pretense of keeping her balance all the excuse he needs.

 

The lightning flashes in her eyes as she glares at him, the crash of thunder following almost immediately. The storm is on top of them, and he’ll be needing to see to the crew, but he’s having a hard time breaking her stare.

 

“Shouldn’t you be dealing with the storm?” she finally snaps, backing away from him and leaning against the wall. “Your precious boat might run into trouble otherwise.”

 

“Aye.” He gets to his feet, ignoring the stab of pain in his side and reaching for his coat on the peg by the door. The rain is lashing the windows with fury by now, the seas whipped into a frenzy. These late autumn storms are unpredictable no matter the realm, but he hopes this one blows out as quickly as its appeared. He isn’t in the mood for an all-night battle with Mother Nature.

 

“The conversation isn’t over, Swan.” He doesn’t hear what she mutters after him, but the tone of her voice is enough to know it’s just as well. The wind catches him full in the face as he strides on deck, wood creaking and sails straining as the storm rages.

 

It’s a struggle to cross the deck and gain the wheel, relieving the terrified crew member on watch. Water pours into his eyes, down the back of his coat, and he can barely see a thing save when a flash of lightning blinds him.

 

But just as suddenly as the storm appears, it fades. The seas calm, the wind dies down and the rain stops. Killian leans his weight into the wheel, staring in wonder at the clear sky ahead, the stars twinkling against the inky backdrop and the curiously still seas.

 

Soaked to the bone, he turns control of the ship back over to the night watchman and heads back to his quarters, irritated at the soaking but happy to have seemingly only caught the edge of whatever nasty storm this is… though he’s begun to suspect the storm has little to do with the weather and everything to do with the woman in his quarters.

 

Below decks, Emma has quieted, still as the sea has gone. He finds her sitting at the table, deep in thought. She’s been into the rum by the looks of things, but he doesn’t begrudge her the drink. He supposes it’s a lot to take in for the lass.

 

“It glowed,” she says when he slides into the chair across from her, taking the flask from her unresisting grip. He’s dripping, but there’s something about her that makes him stay right where he is.

 

“Aye, they do that.”

 

“I could _see_ your heartbeat.” She sits back in her chair, burrowing into the quilt again. She looks so very fragile sitting there with the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her delicate fingers curled tight around the fabric, and the urge to wrap her in his arms comes unbidden. “Why did you do it?”

 

“Had a point to prove.” He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. It’s getting harder to hide these urges of his, these feelings which started as a desire to get her into his bed but lately seem to be morphing into something else entirely.

 

“But….” She takes a deep breath, raises her eyes to his. He’s surprised by the emotion in her gaze, a strange mixture of awe and curiosity…and something else, something foreign, something not so different from what he’s ignoring in his own heart. “I could have _killed_ you, without even meaning to. It’s an awfully big risk to take to prove a point.”

 

“Always been a gambling man.”

 

“Fine. Let’s say I believe you. How does this work?”

 

“Haven’t the faintest idea, love.” He grins at her agitated glare, finally shrugging out of his coat. The leather itself does a good job keeping the water out, but the rain made its way under the collar and his shirt and vest are soaked. “I don’t have magic myself. Just learned a few tricks along the way.” He pauses, working at the buttons of the vest to rid himself of the soaked fabric, though it might be worth leaving on for the flicker of interest that pops up in Emma’s eyes before they close off again. “Though I suspect you’re on your way.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“That storm blew up out of nowhere, love. Coincided nicely with your mood when I left you to steer us through. And when it blew out as suddenly as it blew in, I returned to find you calm…just as the sea.”

 

“I didn’t…”

 

“Not on purpose, no. But the winds blow stronger when your temper rises. The night we set sail from Boston, it was calm in port. The storm had passed, mostly. But the seas grew rougher the more upset you became…and calmed when you fell asleep.” He’s managed to work the shirt and vest off as he’s talked, wincing as he twists against the stitches in his side. He pats at them absently, checking to make sure he hasn’t pulled anything – again. “You can’t control it, but you will learn.”

 

“You say it like it’s so simple.”

 

“Aye, Swan, it is. Simple doesn’t mean easy. But magic is a part of who you are.”

Emma gapes at him, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she tries to evaluate him. It’s driving her crazy how easily he flips between a proud scoundrel of a pirate and this other man…this man that makes her feel calm when he’s near, who seems to possess some sort of faith in her she’s never had in herself. He says it with such conviction ( _magic is a part of who you are_ ) in spite of their circumstances, in spite of the fact that the only “magic” she’s displayed is a freak storm, and that’s according to him.

 

“How do you do it?” she blurts out, her curiosity getting the better of her.

 

“Maintain such devilishly handsome good looks? That’s no magic, love. That’s all me.”

 

She ignores the comment, tugging the quilt tighter around her shoulders. In for a penny, in for a pound. “How do you go from being so despicable and heartless to…this other person.”

 

He scowls, taking a swig off the rum. “I am who I am, Swan. You’ve got the notion I’m something else, that’s your problem.”

 

“You want me to see you as a pirate.” Her eyes fall to the flask in his hand. “A pirate with a drinking problem.”

 

“Aye.” He shrugs, because it’s not entirely untrue. Captain Hook is who he’s been for so long, it’s hard to remember a time when he was something else, someone else.

 

“You _choose_ to be those things. You were something else, once,” she says softly, like she’s read the thoughts right out of his mind.

 

“Weren’t we all?” His reply is bitter, a harsh truth sneaking into his voice that he doesn’t like to think about. Thinking about _before_ , about Liam and their once-bright future, about a life he should have lived and died in the Enchanted Forest long before Regina’s curse arrived…it’s a dangerous path.

 

“I was a thief. I went to jail. I had my son in jail.” Emma speaks slowly, concentrating on her words and the truth behind them. She doesn’t know why she’s telling him this, why she’s trying, in spite of refusing all of his earlier attempts, to reach him. Maybe it’s because they have more in common than she really likes to recognize, or maybe it’s because she’s tired of fighting with him, or maybe it’s because holding his beating heart in her hand shifted whatever strange relationship they’ve established.

 

Maybe it’s because he admitted her likes her, and she can’t quite make herself tell him the same thing, but she can tell him _this_.

 

“I never thought I could learn to let go of my first love…of my Milah.” Like her, he’s speaking slowly, purposefully. He’s staring at the table when he starts, but he lifts his bottomless blue eyes to hers, hesitates, and then says it so quietly she isn’t sure she’s heard him “And then I met you.”

 

“Hook…”

 

“It’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it, Swan? You wanted the truth. Now you bloody have it. The reason I couldn’t choose a realm for you. The reason I’ve been grasping at reasons to keep you close, and the reason I rather make a bargain with you that will be far more trouble to keep than to accept Regina’s. I even bloody _told_ you I liked you.”

 

“I…”

 

“Forget it, Swan.” He sighs, taking one final swig off the flask before replacing the cork. “It’s late. Get some sleep. We sail for a cursed town and your boy on the morrow.”

 

“But I…I haven’t agreed.”

 

“You will.”

 

“You’re trying to trick me.”

 

“No, Swan, I’m not.” He gets to his feet, holding his hand out to her. She takes it after a long moment of indecision, surprised when he pulls hard enough to press her body flush with his, his skin warm through the thin fabric of her shirt.

 

It’s a bigger shock when he bends, brushing his lips against hers while she stands there, frozen with surprise and confusion and an odd feeling of emptiness when he backs away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emma believes and we're off to Storybrooke....


	10. Chapter 10

Emma stares at him in shock as he backs away, his thumb rubbing absently against his bottom lip as he watches her. If she wasn’t so confused about the entire experience, she might feel more for him, might acknowledge just how vulnerable he’s made himself in the last two minutes. There’s something in his eyes, something hopeful and tentative, that makes a part of her want to close the space between them, kiss him back this time, _feel_.

 

But Emma is terrified, and Emma is running on instinct alone.

 

“What ever happened to never touching a woman against her will?” She hurls the words at him, an accusation to protect herself from feeling _anything_ for him. The words are the only weapon she has, and she’s going to use what little advantage she has. It doesn’t matter that it snuffs out the light in his eyes as soon a she says it – it doesn’t matter that for a split second, she can see she’s wounded him – deeply.

 

It’s the only way she can protect herself.

 

“Poor form, Swan.” It’s only seconds before he plasters the smug grin right back into place. “Lying does not suit you.”

 

“I didn’t kiss you back.”

 

“You didn’t push me away.”

 

“I was in shock!”

 

“Suit yourself, love.” He touches his lips again, almost subconsciously. “Let us retire the matter for the evening. Magic requires strength and strength requires sleep.”

 

“I’m not getting in that bed with you.”

 

He sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. His frustration shows then, tight jaw and tense shoulders, all the more obvious by his lack of shirt. Emma banishes the memory of what it felt like to be pressed to him, strong arms encircling her waist, the softness of his lips in spite of the hardness of his personality.

 

“Swan, I apologize. We’ve discussed why it is that we will both sleep in this chamber. That hasn’t changed. Our return to the queen’s town will not be a popular one, and the crew must remain under my command. I will not be sleeping on the floor and neither shall you.”

 

“The floor is fine.”

 

He mutters under his breath, and though she only catches every third word, it’s nothing too flattering. “I am tired, lass. My bloody side hurts. You test a man’s patience more than is wise. Go to sleep, Swan.”

 

The candles flicker as she struggles to control her temper, the frustration and rage warring for control against the certain knowledge that she still needs his help. Reluctantly, she kicks off her boots, turning toward the bed and steadfastly ignoring him as she moves as close as she can toward the wall.

 

She can feel his eyes on her, can feel the longing and the frustration and the uncertainty coming off him in waves. It takes everything in her not to tell him to _stop_ but she might as well tell the ocean to stop moving – she knows she can’t dictate anyone’s feelings (she can’t even dictate her own).

 

It’s impossible not to hear every step he takes, blowing out candles and taking off his boots, hanging up his coat and soaked shirt and vest. Perhaps he’s trying to give her time, or perhaps he’s stalling because whatever this is between them, the gentleness of his kiss tells her more than he perhaps would like.

 

A kiss like that isn’t about lust – it isn’t about impulse and want and need. It’s filled with affection, and promise, and _emotion_ and no one has ever kissed Emma like that before – not even Neal.

 

Thinking of Neal just knots her emotions into a tighter tangle, and she sighs, punching her pillow and struggling to get comfortable. The sudden flurry of motion catches his attention, and she can feel his eyes on her again.

 

She struggles to still herself, to make herself small, but it’s cold. The quilt is still sitting on the chair she previously occupied, but she refuses to admit to being awake, to get out of bed and chance another awkward conversation.

 

She doesn’t count on him noticing the missing quilt, on him gathering it up and bringing it back to the bed with him. “I know you’re awake, Swan,” he says quietly, shaking the quilt out over her and carefully pulling it over her bare feet.

 

“No, I’m not,” she mumbles stubbornly, curling tighter against the pillow.

 

“Emma.” She jumps at the touch of his hand on her shoulder, his weight on the mattress frustratingly comforting. But that’s not the worst of – it’s the way he says her name, her _actual_ name, like a caress from a lover.

 

“I can’t, Hook.” She says it to the wall, unwilling to turn and face him. This is an impossible situation. Her body craves his, but her mind rejects the idea entirely. She needs to focus on getting her son out of the cursed town, on finding her parents and maybe, _finally_ , having a family.

 

She does not need to be having _a moment_ in bed with the pirate who kidnapped her from her apartment.

 

He backs off, the coldness of her response enough to discourage any further attempt at conversation. They pass a restless night together, each awake and knowing full well the other is, but not speaking. She listens to him breathe, hears the catch when he moves and irritates his stitches.

 

She feels his warmth curling around her beneath the shared quilt, the scent of him – salty and sweaty and a hint of alcohol – it’s harder and harder as the night goes on to not turn to him, to not let him wrap her in his arms and maybe just forget about her impossible situation for a few minutes.

 

But none of that is an option – it’s _never_ going to be an option.

 

He slides from bed just before dawn, leaving Emma to her silence as he tugs on his boots and fishes out a fresh shirt. She hears him hesitate at the door, the pause in the rhythm of his breath that tells her he’s going to say something, something she doesn’t want to hear – but damn him if he doesn’t somehow _know_ that and slip out the door without another word.

 

Emma sighs with frustration, flipping onto her back and punching the mattress. Her hand grazes over his side of the bed, the sheets still warm. She slides over, telling herself she’s just taking advantage of the extra room, but it’s a lie as she falls asleep with her nose pressed into his pillow, breathing him in.

 

When she wakes, the sun is streaming in through the windows. The voices of the crew drift through the floorboards above her head, muted, but the soundtrack of life at sea.

 

She hates that she can pick out his laugh from the rest with ease.

 

Breakfast is waiting for her on the table, oatmeal long gone cold. She frowns at it, poking the spoon into the mush with a shudder of distaste. It’s a surprise she slept through it being brought, but if they’re really heading back to land, she supposes skipping this meal won’t hurt.

 

Going hungry beats forcing it down.

 

She takes her time putting her boots back on, struggling to comb her hair with her fingers and twist it back from her face. A shower – that’s the first thing she’s looking for once she gets off this god forsaken boat. A shower and some coffee.

 

She would kill a man for a decent cup of coffee right now.

 

There’s not much to occupy her in the cabin, try as she might to avoid going above. The air is stuffy, and she feels trapped down here. Resolving to ignore Hook, she shrugs on her heavy coat and goes above.

 

His expression shifts at her appearance, eyes hardening and jaw tightening. “Morning to you, Swan.” The words are smooth, the perfect picture of politeness, but she knows him well enough now to know this is the mask talking.

 

She knows better than anyone what it is to wear a mask.

 

“Morning.” It’s all she can give him, mirrored politeness. The sunshine is deceptive – they must be heading north again, because the faint breeze has a bite to it. It sparks her curiosity as she crosses the deck to stand beside him, the crew members scattering instantly. “Where are we going?” she asks more quietly, wishing she had a scarf to ward against the chill. It feels good to be in the fresh air, but it will be cold before long.

 

Not that it seems to bother _him_. He’s the picture of indifference behind the wheel, shirt open as usual.

 

He casts a glance at her from the side of his eyes before returning his attention to the ocean ahead. “We’ve discussed this, Swan. To fetch your lad.”

“Yeah, but where? He’s not in Boston.”

 

“Storybrooke. It’s in a place called Maine.”

 

“Maine.” Emma shivers, wondering if it’s snowed there yet. By her guess, Halloween is just a few days away, though it’s hard to keep track of the dates out at sea. Has she been out here three nights or two? Four? The days blur together.

 

“You know the place?”

 

“Know of it. I went to Portland, once. On a case.”

 

“A case?”

 

She squints at him in the sunlight, his genuinely baffled expression. She doesn’t know how she keeps forgetting he’s not of this world – it should be enough just to look at him to know it. “My job. I…” She stops, trying to think how to explain in terms he’ll understand. “It was my job to find people who didn’t wish to be found.”

 

He smirks, releasing his grip on the wheel to slide an arm around her waist. He’s taking advantage of the watchful eyes of the crew, and she knows it, but there’s little she can do about it as he leans close. “We’re not so different, Swan,” he murmurs in her ear, his lips close enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath. “You’ve already admitted as much.”

 

“I’m nothing like you.” It’s practically a growl, the quietness of the words doing little to hide their venom. “Take your hand off me or you’ll have another hook shortly.”

 

He scowls at her, but he removes his hand from her hip, returning it to rest lightly upon the wheel. “You should practice your magic, love. We should be in Storybrooke by midday tomorrow if the weather holds.” He shoots her a pointed glance. “That includes you controlling that temper, darling.”

 

“What if I can’t do it? What if I try, and I can’t give you back your hand?”

 

He doesn’t answer right away, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Swan, I’m a patient man. I’ve lived a long time. I believe you’ll sort it out. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in my time about magic, it’s that a little belief goes a long way, so give it a go.”

 

“I don’t even know where to start.”

 

“I haven’t got magic, love. I’m of little use. Pick something small.”

 

“Witches in movies always light candles.”

 

“Haven’t an idea what a movie is, but I’d suggest against toying with fire aboard a wooden ship.” He sighs, gesturing to the seas around them. “You’ve manipulated the weather before. Perhaps see if you can do it again.”

 

“I don’t think…”

 

“That’s your bloody problem, Swan. The thinking. Magic is less about thinking and more about just doing.”

 

She glares at him, but she doesn’t say anything, because he’s probably right. Movies and books have taught her that magic is elemental and natural and can’t be forced. Maybe those rules will apply to her present situation.

 

After all, movies and books were apparently right about Snow White and Prince Charming and Neverland…though some of the details are off.

 

“I need to be alone.” Emma turns away, shivering in the breeze. Her choices are limited, and it’s going to be colder perched high above the ship, but it’s the only place she’s felt a minute’s peace since this entire ordeal began.

 

So she starts climbing.

 

She can feel his eyes on her as she climbs, but she ignores him. She feels a little ridiculous trying his at all, but it’s become impossible to deny that things she’s never believed in, things that have always been part of a make believe world, they’re real.

 

Just like her son.

 

She settles down on the platform again. It has a name, this odd, high place above the ship, and she tells herself she’ll ask Hook about it. Why this detail suddenly matters, she doesn’t really know.

 

Her back is to him, her gaze focusing on the horizon. The wind is stronger up here, and she shivers in spite of her heavy coat, burying her hands in her pockets and taking a deep breath.

 

She doesn’t want to cause another storm – that will end badly for all involved. Hook says she’s manipulated the weather before, but what’s she supposed to do? Call down the lightning like some avenging Valkyrie?

 

It would be a lot easier to try to light a candle.

 

She turns her eyes to the sky, the wispy white clouds breaking up the endless stretch of robin’s egg blue. Maybe she can get of them, one by one, leave the sky uncluttered and pristine.

 

She stares at the clouds for a hour before giving up on the idea, her frustration mounting. Obviously, that’s the moment she hears him below, the sound of metal clinking on metal as the pendant he wears moves against the buttons as he climbs.

 

“Though I would pop up and check on you.”

 

“Go away, Hook.”

 

“You’ve got to relax, love.”

 

“You keep saying that, but you should know you _telling_ me to relax doesn’t help one damn bit! I’ve been up here, staring at one stupid cloud, trying to make it disappear, for an hour! It hasn’t moved. Nothing has happened. _Nothing_. And now you’re up here telling me to relax, and I just can’t, Hook! I can’t do this!”

 

“Swan.”

 

“Don’t _Swan_ me. Don’t come up here telling me you believe I can do it and all the other nonsense. I’m not special. I’ve _never been_ special. I can’t be a savior to these people, curse or not. I just want to take my son away from this crazy woman, go back to Boston, and finally get to eat a damn cupcake. And shower. I _really_ want to shower.”

 

“Swan!” His second attempt is sharper, more insistent. She finally shuts up, a flush of embarrassment at her rant staining her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to come quite so unglued on him, but now it’s out and there’s no taking it back.

 

“What?”

 

“ _Look_.” He points to the sky, Emma’s gaze following.

 

There isn’t a single cloud in sight.

 

He grins, that smug grin that makes his eyes dance with mischief. “Your magic responds well to me.”

 

Emma finds herself once again too stunned to speak, eyes searching the sky for a trace of a cloud and finding none. She turns her hands over in her lap, amazed. “I don’t even know how I did that.”

 

“You’ll sort it out.” He squeezes her hand before beginning to climb back down the ropes. “Don’t stay up there too long, Swan. Don’t want you to catch cold.”

 

“Sure.” It’s unlikely he hears her, the quiet whisper of a word falling from her lips as she sits there, completely and utterly baffled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this after watching last night's episode was basically impossible. Our ship is so happy! Except in this fic. Oops.


	11. Chapter 11

She stays high above the deck until she’s shaking with cold, struggling to make the clouds reappear. It’s a trying task, and frustrating.

 

Endlessly frustrating.

 

It’s only when she’s ready to give up, when her eyes find him at the wheel and she curses his very existence that the clouds return. He notices – of course he notices – and catches her watching him, and damn him, his expression fills with smugness.

 

Captain Hook cannot be the key to her magic. It’s bad enough her emotional response to him has been a trigger thus far to making anything happen, even if that trigger is a result of wanting to slap the amusement right off his face.

 

She doesn’t want to owe him anything, doesn’t want to _rely_ on him for anything. Emma Swan doesn’t rely on anyone but herself and she means to keep it that way. To do anything else is to take a far greater risk than she intends to.

 

It’s harder to climb down, her fingers frozen with cold and her arms stiff. She nearly slips when she’s close to the bottom, and she curses herself by the time her boots hit the deck.

 

Hook is waiting.

 

“You all right, Swan?” He puts a hand on her arm to steady her, frowning. “You’re shaking. Go inside.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

He sighs, weary as he releases her and scrubs his hand over his face. “It needn’t be a battle with every word between us.”

 

She opens her mouth to respond, to fire back a snappy reply, but she stops. He’s right – it doesn’t have to be a constant fight. He’s backed down. He’s agreed to help her.

 

Now she’s just being a bitch.

 

“You’re right.” It’s the closest she can muster to an apology, the words stiff. She hesitates another minute, her eyes on the sun beginning its downward path to the horizon once more. “I’ll be below.”

 

He nods, watching her with an odd look about him as she moves away, her frozen hands chafing at her arms. It’s only when she’s disappeared below that he allows himself a satisfied smirk, turning an eye to the crow’s nest above.

 

Her magic _does_ respond to him, whether she wants to admit it or not. His revenge is so close he can almost taste the satisfaction of it, the feel of the crocodile’s throat between his hand _s._

 

In fact, as the _Jolly_ cuts through the waves and continues northward, Killian begins to wonder if maybe Emma is more than just a savior to the town – maybe she’s a savior to him. She’ll help him get his hand back, which will in turn provide him his revenge. Revenge will give him a chance at peace, he thinks. Vengeance will soothe the old hurts. Perhaps once he’s settled the past with the crocodile, he can consider a future with Emma.

 

If she lets him, anyway.

 

He frowns at the thought, the sting of her words last night still fresh. He knows she said it just to get under his skin, but it bothers him nonetheless. There’s something between them, something he knows she feels as much as he does, but she’s fighting it with everything she’s got.

 

Though he supposes the fact that he kidnapped her mere days ago might have something to do with it.

 

But he’s trying, now. He’s promised to help her with retrieving her lad, to return her to her rightful place. He hasn’t any idea how she’s supposed to break the curse, how any of this business works, but he’s going to help her figure it out.

 

That should count for something.

 

He stays above as long as he can make himself, which amounts to another hour or so. His side aches miserably from forcing himself to maintain his usual straight spine for hours at the wheel, and even a liberal supply of rum isn’t particularly helping anymore.

 

If only Emma wasn’t in his quarters, he’d make Smee heat water for a bath.

 

His thoughts wander as he heads below deck, a vision of the copper tub, himself and Emma swirling through his mind. Truth be told, the damn tub really isn’t large enough for any of it, but it’s a wonderful thought.

 

He’s still thinking of it when he walks in, and the sight that greets him is of little help. Emma is curled up in his bed, below the quilt, but the collar of the sweater she’s wearing peeks out above the blankets, a cozy, warm sweater of soft wool.

 

He should know. It’s his.

 

“I’m sorry, I probably should have asked, but I was so damn cold.” She starts to babble as soon as she notices him, but he just shrugs it off, sliding the coat down his arms and hanging it on the peg beside the door.

 

“No trouble at all, love. Looks better on you.” He offers her a tentative smile, a peace offering of sorts.

 

“Thanks.” The smile she offers in return is faint, but it’s there, and it’s something. She sits up, the quilt pooling around her waist as she tugs the sleeves over her fingers. “Do you think…” She hesitates, her eyes darting around the room before settling on him again. “I’d really like to get some of my own clothes and my wallet. My phone. My car. So I can bring my son home, when this is over.”

 

He doesn’t answer right away. Truth be told, Boston isn’t far out of their way. His excursion to retrieve her took hardly any time, and he can understand her desire for her own clothing, strange as he finds it. The phone and the car, whatever those are, he doesn’t know, but they seem important to her.

 

She sees his hesitation and sighs. “Look, we made a deal. You’re going to help me get my son back. I’ll…try…to get you your hand back. I’m not going to take off. I want my son.”

 

“So I suppose you’d be asking me to trust you, then?” He cocks an eyebrow at her, the challenge all over his face. It’s what he’s been asking for (and not exactly getting) from her. It wouldn’t be good manners to point it out, exactly, but to hide it in an innocent question, that will do just fine.

 

“I guess I am.”

 

“Well, Swan, I suppose we have a deal then.” He falls into a chair with a wince, his hand pressing against the stiches in his side. Hurts like the devil, but he won’t be telling her that. “We’ll arrive in Boston in the middle of the night based off our current location. I suggest you sleep now if you’re able.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“Worried for me, love?”

 

Emma fights the urge to snap back, to let her temper get the better of her in the face of his obvious enjoyment of all this. She sighs, folding her arms over her chest and meeting his gaze with one of her own. “Worried about my son.” She’s not being nasty this time, but the words prove her point. This isn’t about him, or helping him, not for her – this is about getting her boy.

 

He understands that. He almost tells her how very much he understands, how he had a choice once with Milah’s boy and he made the wrong one. How he’s had nightmares for years about Pan’s damn shadow and the Lost Boys coming for Bae, the look of betrayal on the lad’s face. He wonders if he’s still there, in Neverland, still Lost.

 

“Hey.” She’s gotten out of bed while he’s been lost in thought and crossed the room, her hand tentative on his shoulder. “Are you…are you all right?”

 

“Fine.” He waves her off, wiping his face clean of his thoughts. “Nothing to concern yourself with, love.”

 

“I…” She stops before she’s said anything else, and he looks up to see the uncertainty in her expression, the hesitation. Her hand is still on his shoulder, her skin warm through the fabric of his shirt, and it’s hard not to lean into her touch, not to beg her to come to bed with him – not because he wants her (though he _does_ want her) but because he’d really like to just bury his face in her hair and breathe her in.

 

But he’s not ready to say those things and she’s not ready to hear them.

 

“How’re the stitches?” she finally asks, her hand dropping from his shoulder.

 

“Nothing a bit of rum won’t cure.”

 

“Let me see.”

 

He arches an eyebrow at her, the leering grin returning. “Always so eager with the clothes.”

 

“Don’t push your luck.”

 

“Oh, have a little bit of fun, Swan.” He leans back in his chair, covering the wince with another sly grin. “I don’t suppose you’d like to help me.”

 

“I’ve seen you undo the buttons all on your own. You’re plenty capable.”

 

He gives her his best wounded look, undoing the buttons slowly. It’s worth it to watch her try to not watch him, the spark of interest in her eyes that she fights so hard to cover up. One day, he’ll find a way to make her stop hiding.

 

“See, love? Nothing to concern yourself with.” The wound appears to be healing, though the flesh is far from repaired. Emma’s neat stitches have held up against the day’s activity, at least, though the skin is irritated and red.

 

“You should clean it, make sure it doesn’t get infected. You really need to have a shower on this thing.”

“And what, pray tell is a shower?”

 

She sighs, getting up and crossing the room to his stash of rum. “A shower is something I am doing to do when we get to my apartment and _you_ are not going to stop me.”

 

“Sounds promising.”

 

She rolls her eyes, returning with a wad of cloth and the bottle of rum. “It’s like a bath, except it pours down over your head. Like standing under a waterfall, but with hot water.”

 

“That does sound pleasant. Perhaps you’ll show me how it works, this shower?” It’s a struggle not to laugh at the incredulous expression on her face, the way her lips twitch as she fights a smile.

 

“Sure. I’ll show you how it works. And you can use it _alone_.”

 

“What if I drown?”

 

“If you manage to drown in the shower, you’ll deserve it.”

 

“That’s hardly a charitable sentiment, Swan.”

 

“When you see it, you’ll understand. In the meantime…” She uncorks the rum, splashing it onto the cloth and leaning forward to press it against the stitches. “This will do.”

 

“Bloody easy for you to say.” He can’t stop the wince this time, or the way he sucks his breath in at the pressure and the sting of alcohol. The wound hasn’t completely scabbed over, and it’s not particularly pleasant what she’s doing.

 

“You’re fine.” She pulls the cloth away, dropping it onto the table with a smirk of her own as she extends the bottle to him.

 

He makes a discontented noise, taking the bottle from her and swallowing deeply. “Smee will be in shortly with supper, should you like it. I’m told you didn’t eat your breakfast. You must be hungry.”

 

“It was cold when I woke up. How did you even know?”

 

“I know everything that happens on my ship.”

 

“Uh huh.” Emma doesn’t doubt that he’s telling the truth, but the promise of a shower does wonders for her mood. He so enjoys teasing her – perhaps a dose of his own medicine will do him some good.

“You doubt my prowess?” His lips curl around the lip of the rum bottle, taking another sip of the liquor while managing to look positively scandalous.

 

It’s tempting to slap him for the remark, for the way it drips with innuendo, but Emma is in a good enough mood to give as good as she gets. So she drags her eyes over him, slowly, arching one brow in challenge when she finally meets his eyes. If she’s not mistaken, there’s a dab of extra color to his cheeks under her stare.

 

“Doubt isn’t the word I’d use,” she finally says, smirking back at him like he’s so fond of doing to her.

 

He takes another swig off the bottle, far less sure of himself this time. “You couldn’t handle it, love.”

 

She takes a step closer, and leans down until their lips are mere inches apart. “Please. _You’re_ the one who couldn’t handle it,” she says in a low voice, letting the words fill with promise. It’s easy – she’s done this to snag her mark a thousand times before.

 

It’s just never been quite so fun.

 

She realizes he’s going to try to kiss her with just enough time to back away, a lingering grin on her lips. “Oh no. We’re not doing that again.”

 

“Because you can’t handle it?” He leans back in his chair, regarding her with a mixture of amusement and longing that isn’t hard to decipher.

 

She scoffs, snatching the rum out of his hand and taking a sip of it to cover her lack of immediate response to his jab. Her playful mood evaporates in the face of his challenge, because he’s hit a tender spot without knowing it. He’s probably right. She probably _can’t_ handle it.

 

It’s too confusing to _want_ him. He _kidnapped_ her – he _drugged_ her. He’s Captain _freaking_ Hook, and even if he paints a much finer picture than any of the versions she’s ever seen, he’s always been a villain. He’s a pirate. He’s already admitted he does things that are in his interest. Even helping her – there’s something in it for him.

 

Even if there is another way for him to get what he wants, without helping her.

 

She _can’t_ want him. But she can wipe that smug expression off his face.

 

Another deep drink from the bottle of rum doesn’t hurt.

 

She sets the bottle down, letting her fingers drag down the bottle before turning her attention to him. Her intentions must show on her face, because she hears the catch in his breath, even before she slides her legs over his and settles into his lap, arms looped around his neck. It’s almost worth it for the way the drops slips off his face, his eyes wide and his breath uneven as she leans forward, letting one of her hands slide down his chest oh-so-slowly, her fingernails lightly dragging over his skin.

 

“Emma.” His voice is low, and she can feel him shifting in his seat beneath her legs, the flex of the muscle in his thighs. It’s almost enough make her abandon the entire plan, because there’s something about the power she seems to have over him in this moment that’s intoxicating, something about feeling the way the muscle in his legs clench and shift under her thighs that makes her _want._

 

So she acts before she loses her nerve, pulling him forward with the hand on the back of his neck, delivering a savage kiss. He reacts instantly, his hand on the small of her back pressing her closer, his mouth moving eagerly with hers until she jerks back, getting to her feet with a smug grin of her own.

 

“Yeah, I’m definitely the one who can’t handle it.” She smirks, turning toward the bed. “I think I’ll take that nap now. Wake me up when we get to Boston.”

 

Her victory is short-lived. She can feel her heart pounding against her ribs and try as she might, she can’t make it stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been really bad about answering comments, but please know I read all of them and they make me smile! I am trying to be better about answering you guys before it's been two weeks and my reply doesn't even make sense. 
> 
> Also, for anyone following the eonline poll - captainswan won another round! Woohoo!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's on the long side, but I just couldn't find a good break for it. Hope you enjoy!

It’s late when Emma finally puts her boots back on solid ground, but she’s never been so happy to see Boston in her life, to breathe in the slightly rotten smell of the harbor and life in the city.

 

It beats being a prisoner on a pirate ship, anyway.

 

It’s awkward around Hook, now, since she did that stupid thing she did. It seemed like such a good idea at the time, kissing him like she was playing a part, but she didn’t count on the way it would stick with her, curling low in her belly, making her hyperaware of him – making her wonder what it would be like to do more than kiss him, to lose herself in him and his body.

 

He hasn’t said a word to her beyond a few necessary pieces of information, and he’s silent now as they move down the dock, but she can feel him, a tangle of confusion and want and need and frustration seething along beside her. She does her best to keep her distance, to put at least of foot of space between them, but the sidewalks narrow as they move further into the city toward her apartment, and she nearly jumps out of her skin when her hand accidentally brushes his.

 

It surprises her more when he doesn’t take the opportunity to needle her.

 

She’s relieved when they finally make it to her apartment building. It’s a small miracle no one’s been in her apartment, the door left unlocked as it’s been for days. She winces at the sight of things, the now-stale cupcake on the counter, her clutch on the floor from her last assignment, an evening that seems so far away now. She picks it up with a frown, the weight of her phone a comfort. The battery is of course dead when she slips it out, but the screen blinks to life as she grabs the plug on the kitchen counter and clicks it into place.

 

Hook watches the entire thing without even attempting to hide his confusion.

 

“It’s a phone,” she explains, gesturing with it as she scrolls through her missed messages. “A way to talk to people.”

 

“Through a box that fits in your hand?”

 

“Yeah.” The reply is absentminded as she reads the texts from her boss. Among other things, it seems her detour on the Jolly Roger has cost her her job. Perfect. With a frustrated groan, she puts the phone back on the counter, opening the fridge to check for anything edible.

 

Strike two.

 

“I’m going to order a pizza,” she tells him, reaching for the phone again. “There’s nothing to eat here and I’m starving.”

 

All he does is lift an eyebrow at her as she dials, reciting her usual order and hanging up again. “So you use the box to make others do your bidding.”

 

She shrugs. “I guess, sometimes. I’m going to pay for the food. They bring it here. It’s a thing.”

 

“I suppose you’ll be explaining what this pizza business is all about as well.”

 

“It’s so sad that you’ve never eaten pizza.” Emma shakes her head, kicking off the boots with a sigh. She’d really like to get out of these clothes, considering she’s been wearing them for days, and god, wash her hair, but he’s standing right there. “Pizza is cheese and bread and grease and delicious. You’ll see.”

 

“Indeed.” He shifts his weight about, and Emma realizes belatedly how incredibly out of place he must feel, here, in this apartment with her and her cell phone and pizza delivery. She would almost feel bad for him – if she hadn’t spent the last few days being thoroughly uncomfortable in _his_ world.

 

“I’m going to take a quick shower before the pizza gets here. If they knock on the door before I’m out, give the guy this.” She hands him some cash, gesturing toward the door. “He gives you the pizza, you give him the money. Say thank you. That’s it.”

 

He scowls at her, taking the cash and peering at it curiously. “I’ve procured dinner in an eating establishment before, Swan. I understand the concept of paying for a meal, even if it seems a bit odd to have it delivered to your door.” He rubs his thumb over the paper bills, frowning at them. “Is this the currency of your realm? Seems a bit…worthless.”

 

“It’s worth plenty.” She takes another step out of the kitchen, moving toward her bedroom and the much desired shower. “Just…don’t touch anything.”

 

“I’m to stay here? You’ve promised to show me this shower business.”

 

“I will. After. It’s not for sharing.”

 

“But you’ve said it’s like a bath. A bath is best when shared.” His smirk broadens as Emma’s cheeks darken with color, his gaze falling to her lips. “Unless of course you can’t handle it.”

 

“It’s not going to work a second time, Hook. I’ve made my point. You can’t trick me into falling all over myself for you.”

 

He frowns, catching her wrist with his hook as she turns away again, surprisingly gentle. “Emma, allow me to be clear with you. In spite of my charming manners and demeanor, this is no game. When I win your heart…and I will win it…it won’t be because of any trick. It will because you want me.” He pauses, and she’s only barely aware of how close he is, the way his arm has snaked around her waist while he’s been talking without her noticing, the heat that flares to life in her belly at his touch. “Stop fighting it, love.”

 

He bends to kiss her again, to let their bodies say the words she won’t, but Emma jerks out of his grasp at the last moment, stumbling back until she feels the wall under her palms. “I can’t,” she manages to choke out, her heart hammering wildly. “I just can’t.”

 

“I’m a patient man.” This smile is softer, without a hint of the goading smirk she’s come to know so well. “Go have your shower, love. I eagerly anticipate my lesson in its magic.”

 

She rolls her eyes as she turns away, a cover for her thoughts more than anything. Even after so eagerly anticipating a change of clothing and a shower, she’s barely aware of her actions as she closes the bathroom door behind her, starts the water and gets undressed.

 

The scalding hot water is a shock to the system, and she quickly adjusts the tap until the temperate is right. It’s luxurious in a manner a shower never has been, the hot water and the ability to get _clean_ and to have enough space to hear herself think without an audience.

 

The trouble is, Emma doesn’t really want to _think_ right now.

 

But the familiar smell of her shampoo can’t drive out the thoughts circling in her mind, the feel of his lips on hers, the way her heart speeds up when his body presses close to hers. This can’t be normal – has she developed some strange form of Stockholm Syndrome after just a few days with the guy?

 

She frowns at the thought, working conditioner into her hair with vigor. But that doesn’t quite explain _him_ and his behavior. He jumps from menacing pirate to something else entirely, but the more time they spend together, the more he seems…different. When she lets herself get closer, when she lets herself really look at him, beyond the smirks and the filthy suggestions, he seems…lost. Lost and sad.

 

Those are things Emma knows something about.

 

“Swan!” She jumps at the bang on the door, his agitated voice as he tries to enter but finds the door locked. She mentally congratulates herself on remembering to lock it, thankfully he hasn’t burst in to find her naked and thinking about him. “Swan, there’s someone at the door!”

 

“That was fast,” she grumbles to herself, leaning back into the water to rinse her hair. “We went over this, Hook! Just pay the guy with the money I gave you,” she shouts over the shower, squeezing her eyes shut in frustration. It seemed a simple enough task for him to pay for a pizza while she got cleaned up, but apparently she’s overestimated his ability to handle the modern world. “I’ll just be another minute.”

 

“I think you better come now.”

 

“I’m working on it!” She curses a blue streak as she rushes through the last of her shower, staring longingly at the dials as she twists them to the off position and the water ceases. She really wanted to just stand here for a few more minutes, enjoy the warmth of the water and the solitude and being back in her own place before setting out on another road sure to be filled with twists and turns.

 

She yanks open the bathroom door to find him sitting on the edge of her bed, a very odd expression on his face. “What the hell, Hook?” she demands, holding the towel covering her with a death grip. “I need to get dressed. Seriously. Just go pay the guy.”

 

He looks up at the sound of her voice, and his blue eyes become easily readable as he takes her in, dripping hair, exposed shoulders and legs, face flushed from the shower. Whatever his problem is, he seems to have temporarily forgotten it as he stares at her, a simmering heat in his gaze.

 

“Hey!” She snaps her fingers together by her face, which serves to get his attention. “Eyes up here. Go.”

 

He nods, getting to his feet and leaving the room, but not before pausing in the doorway with a lingering stare, his thumb brushing absently against his bottom lip like it did after that kiss in his quarters.

 

Emma pretends not to notice.

 

She hurries through getting dressed, finding a comfortably worn pair of jeans to go with soft layers of shirts, uncertain where the night will take them. It seems best to be prepared, so a tank goes under a soft long-sleeved sweater, thin but warm. Her hair will be dealt with later, so she leaves it damp and loose over her shoulders, happy to be back in her own clothes.

 

“Where’s the pizza?” she asks as she reenters the living room, eyeing the empty kitchen counter across the apartment.

 

“Swan.” Hook turns from where he’s standing by the couch, and he’s nervous, his weight shifting about as he eyes her. “Swan, I thought it best to let him in.”

 

“You let the pizza guy in? Where is he?”

 

“Hi.” Emma’s gaze follows the voice, which definitely doesn’t belong to a pizza delivery kid, but _does_ belong to a little boy who can’t be more than eight years old. “You’re Emma Swan, right?”

 

“Yes,” she whispers, her eyes darting to Hook’s before settling back on the boy, the one who seems so achingly familiar. But he can’t be – her son is in a cursed town, stuck there with an evil queen.

 

“Awesome. I’m Henry. You’re my mom.”

 

“What are you…” It’s hard to breathe, hard to talk. She stares helplessly at Hook, begging him to do something, anything, because she’s thought about this boy she gave up, hoped for the best for him, missed him, longed for an ability to be a better person, to have made better choices, but now that he’s standing in her living room, she just doesn’t know what to say.

 

“Lad, mind telling your mother how it is you came to be here?” He says it gently, his hand falling on Henry’s shoulder as the boy turns to look at him.

 

“I found you on the internet.” He shrugs, turning back to Emma. “It wasn’t hard.”

 

“You’re a smart kid.”

 

“Yeah, I am.” He shrugs off his backpack, pulling out a heavy book that seems to be a struggle for his small arms to hold as he makes his way over to Emma. “I came to bring you back to Storybrooke, so you could break the curse. But…” He stops, grinning up at her with a child’s pure joy. “If you’ve already got _him_ , I think you know that you have to do it.” Henry turns, eying Hook curiously. “Who are you, anyway? And why aren’t you cursed with the rest of them?”

 

Hook opens his mouth to answer, but Emma cuts him off, kneeling down to Henry’s level. “Where’s your…mom? Your other mom? How did you get here?”

 

“I took a bus.” He eyes her like she’s not that bright, an expression Emma recognizes as one of her own in a frightening moment of clarity. It’s that look in his eyes that really cements it, the certainty that _this is her son_ and he’s standing right in front of her.

 

It’s impulse that drives her to fold her arms around him, pull him close and hold on, breathe in the pure scent of a child’s hair and skin, and feel the waves of relief that he’s _here_ and not in some cursed town that’s she’s going to have to fight to get him out of.

 

The knock on the door brings her to her senses, letting him go as Hook moves to answer it, the cash she handed him earlier in his hand. And he does exactly as she told him, opening the door, smiling politely, handing over the money and taking the cardboard box in motions so smooth, she could almost believe he hadn’t needed a lesson on pizza delivery.

 

The smirk he gives her as he sets the box down says as much.

 

“Pizza, cool!” Henry’s attention is easily diverted to the smell of cheese and bread, and for a few minutes, Emma goes through the refreshingly normal motions of getting out plates and napkins. It’s only when they’ve settled back on the couch in the living room (well, Henry has – she’s perched on the edge of the armchair, her plate carefully balanced on her knees) that the matter at hand gets her attention once again.

 

“Henry…does your mother…does she know you’re here?”

 

He shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s making a bit of a mess, pizza grease and sauce everywhere, but Emma doesn’t care in the least. “She’s evil, so probably. But it’s okay. You’re going to break the curse. And then Snow White and Prince Charming – they’re your parents, did you know? – they’re going to help you defeat her.”

 

“You seem awfully sure I can break the curse, kid.” Emma ignores the Snow White and Prince Charming bit for the moment and takes a bite out of her pizza, her hunger reasserting itself as the smell of fresh food. It’s hard not to get distracted by Hook, the way he’s staring at the pizza slice she’s given him like it might bite him, suspicious and wary. “Just eat it, Hook,” she tells him, but it’s said with a soft smile.

 

“You’re the savior. Of course you can break the curse.” Henry turns his attention back to Hook, filled with questions. “So who are you? The book says that everyone was cursed, but you don’t look like you belong here. You’re from there, aren’t you? The Enchanted Forest – but you remember it? The curse?”

 

“Aye, lad, I do.” He takes a tentative bite of the pizza, his eyes lighting up with surprise. “Bloody hell, this _is_ good, Swan.” It seems he doesn’t much want to talk about the past, either.

 

She rolls her eyes at him, turning her attention back to her son. “He’s Captain Hook.”

 

Henry screws up his face in dismay, picking up the book from where he left it on the couch and flipping through it. “You’re not in the book.” He frowns, looking up. “But you’re a villain. What are you doing with my mom?”

 

Emma answers before Hook has a chance. “He’s been helping me learn magic, so I could get you back from the evil queen.” She feels a little stupid saying it, but she doesn’t want to get into it with him, to spend her first actual night with her son trying to explain how it is that a pirate who kidnapped her at the evil queen’s instruction is now helping her.

 

Except, she’s not really sure he _is_ helping her anymore. Her goal was to get her son back – and she’s done that. Henry is here, in her apartment, a fairly normal boy. Why shouldn’t they just stay together, in Boston, and live their own life together? She could get him enrolled in school, find a bigger apartment so he can have his own room, learn to be a mom.

 

Hook is curiously silent, his pizza finished and the plate on the coffee table as he watches the exchange between mother and son, his expression unreadable as he leans back against the wall. He knows Emma is leaving a big part of the story out for the sake of the boy, and he feels a bit like he’s intruding, being here with them.

 

But he also remembers the way Emma looked to him for help when she didn’t know what to say to the boy, how she hasn’t asked him to leave or done anything to make him feel like she wants him gone – or that she plans to go back on her word.

 

It’s been a very strange evening, and it doesn’t hold the promise of growing any less strange the longer it goes on. From that kiss in his quarters – _that’s_ a kiss he won’t ever be forgetting – to this strange realm with its odd food and odd contraptions and Emma’s change of clothing, and the biggest surprise of them all, to have opened the door expecting food and found instead the boy… it’s making his head spin. It doesn’t help that kissing Emma, _being_ kissed by Emma, has rattled him in a way no woman ever has before – it cemented his knowledge that what he wants from her is far from a simple tumble in the sheets. She makes him want more – much more – and it’s a dangerous think to want. He viciously wishes he’d thought to bring along a few bottles of rum, but this wasn’t supposed to be more than a quick errand.

 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, kid.” Emma’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he focuses back in on her, her furrowed brow and concerned expression. “If she’s so evil, I don’t want you going anywhere near her.”

 

“But you have to break the curse!”

 

“I don’t know how. You can help me – you and Hook. And once we figure it out, then I can go to Storybrooke. While you stay here.”

 

“No! You have to go there! She’ll find me here, and it will be ruined!”

 

“The lad’s right, Swan,” he cuts in, earning him a happy smile from Henry. “She’s aware of your presence here. It would be best to return the lad to the town and work together there, out of sight. Henry can be our spy.”

 

“Yeah! A spy operation! That’s cool. We could call it Operation…Operation Cobra!”

 

Emma lifts an eyebrow at the two of them, beginning to feel like she has zero control over the ride she’s on. Coming back to her apartment, showering, eating pizza and wearing her own clothes, it was supposed to make her feel more like her feet are firmly on the ground, and they did – until Henry showed up.

 

“Okay,” she reluctantly agrees, her eyes drifting to the clock. “We can go in the morning. It’s probably way past your bedtime, kid.”

 

As if on cue, Henry yawns, his hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I am kind of tired.”

 

“You can sleep in my bed. Hook, you’re on the couch.”

 

“No magic shower?”

 

“No,” she replies sharply, mouthing _really_ at him over Henry’s head as she leads her son back toward the bedroom. Henry doesn’t catch the lilting tone of voice in the question, innocent curiosity on his face as Emma helps him get comfortable in her bed.

 

“You have a magic shower?”

 

“No,” she answers wryly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes again. “Hook’s never seen a shower before, so to him, it’s magic.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Emma takes Henry’s scarf and coat, throwing them over the closet door as he settles into the blankets. “I’m going to bring him some blankets and then I’ll be back to sleep in here with you, okay?”

 

“Okay.” He’s already half-asleep, the response garbled by the pillow, and Emma can’t help a soft smile. She can’t believe he’s here – her son – and that she’s going to get this second chance with him, that he isn’t filled with the anger and resentment that already defined her when she was his age. Somehow, someway, her choices haven’t utterly ruined him like she’s always assumed.

 

With one last glance to make sure he’s settled in, she gathers up an armful of blankets and a pillow and heads back to the living room to deal with Hook.

 

“Bit cold of you, Swan, making me sleep alone after enjoying your company these last nights,” he drawls as she emerges, arms loaded up with bedding. He’s taken off his heavy coat, and he paints a fine picture in his snug pants and vest, but she resists the urge to stare at him. It won’t do her any good, no matter how attractive the leather pants make him.

 

“You’ll be fine.” She ignores the smirk he offers, focusing on putting the sheet on the couch. It’s not the most comfortable place to sleep, but for one night, he’ll be fine.

 

“Aye. Tomorrow night we can resume our arrangement.”

 

Emma stands up with a jerk, narrowing her eyes at him as her hands settle on her hips. “What makes you think that’s going to happen?”

 

“Where else are you going to stay out of sight in Storybrooke other than on board my ship?”

 

“I’m not getting back on your ship. Henry took a bus here. I’m going to drive us back. In my car. So I can leave when I want to.” She scowls at him, shoving the pillow into a pillowcase with more force than the task calls for. “Whatever it is you think is happening between us, you should forget about it now. I told you, this is about my son.”

 

“That kiss was not about your son.”

 

“That kiss was about proving a point,” she hisses at him, dropping the pillow onto the couch and turning to face him. “You’re the one who keeps trying to make it into something more. It was _nothing_. A one time thing. Give it up.”

 

“And you had no other way to prove your point, love?”

 

“Just let it go, Hook. It’s never going to happen again.”

 

He’s inched his way closer as they’ve been talking, and he slips his arm around her waist, tugs her against him as his fingers curl possessively around her hip, anchoring her in place. She resolutely ignores him as he leans closer, his breath hot on her skin.

 

Her heart is hammering away in her chest as she struggles to keep still, to not react to him, to be the perfect picture of indifference, but it’s becoming more difficult as he brushes his lips over her cheek. Against her will, her eyes slide shut as he moves again, and she’s still trying to decide what she’s going to do about it when he stops. “You keep telling yourself that, darling,” he whispers in her ear, releasing her suddenly with a look of smug satisfaction that makes her blood boil.

 

“I’m going to bed.” She turns abruptly, crossing the room in several quick strides before barricading herself in her bedroom, his soft laughter chasing her the entire way.


	13. Chapter 13

The trouble is once she gets in bed, Emma can’t fall asleep. She’s hyperaware of Henry next to her, and while a part of her is grateful to have him, she doesn’t know him. She may have given birth to him, but it’s been a long time since that day in the jail’s medical ward, when she gave him up without so much as holding him.

 

But what else was she supposed to do with him? Have the kid sleep on the couch and Hook share her bed? What would he even think of that, meeting a mother who shares a bed with a villain? It’s not like she could even begin to explain the strangeness of her relationship with the pirate captain, the push and pull of ease and frustration he brings out in her.

 

Hook definitely does not need the encouragement of being invited to her bed.

 

Emma shuts her eyes, vows to sleep, makes herself breathe deeply and evenly, but it doesn’t work. Her thoughts still swirl together, an endless loop of doubts and questions.

 

It was one thing to want her son back, to tell Hook she needed to go get him away from an evil queen, trapped in a cursed town, but despite her initial flood of emotion at having him here, she doesn’t know the first thing about being a mother. She thought she would have at least another day to figure out what to say to the kid, how to be his mom, but then he just showed up on her doorstep.

 

The kid said he took a bus to Boston. By himself. From Maine. Granted, it’s something Emma would have pulled when she was his age, but her life was so different, a mess of one foster home to another. Henry seems too, well, trusting, to be living the same sort of life Emma faced at his age. And she’s grateful for that, she is, but a good mother probably would have at least told him it’s not safe to be getting on busses and traveling across state lines by himself at his age.

 

She rolls onto her side, peering at him in the darkness. He’s got her fair skin, but Neal’s dark hair. She wonders what else he gets from her, from his father, this boy they made together and she let slip through her fingers. He sleeps deeply, doesn’t stir when Emma reaches out and tentatively brushes the soft hair away from his forehead. He’s so fragile, and she wants nothing more than to protect him, from evil queens and curses and maybe even herself, but she doesn’t know where to begin.

 

To start with, she has to get him back to Storybrooke in one piece, and she has to find a way to do it without getting him into trouble with his other mother, and without exposing herself. Though it _is_ tempting to simply pack up the kid and herself and go far, far away from Boston. Forget Hook. Forget curses and evil queens. Just run away and forget.

 

Emma’s been running her entire life. She’s gotten good at it.

 

But it’s not a life for a child, constantly on the move, looking over his shoulder. She grew up like that – she gave him up so he wouldn’t have to do the same. It’s not fair for her to consider doing it now.

 

She wishes Hook were here.

 

The thought comes unbidden, and she banishes it quickly. The man is close enough, asleep on her couch. She has no business wanting him in her bed, except that the last few nights sleeping next to him have stirred something long dormant. He infuriates her, but he distracts her, with his smirks and his innuendos and his bright blue eyes. He makes it a little easier to not think so much.

 

Emma could use a little less thinking right about now.

 

When she starts to toss and turn, she finally gets up and goes into the kitchen for a glass of water, afraid her constant fidgeting will wake Henry. It’s quiet, the city spread out beneath her windows in an array of twinkling lights that somehow seem less impressive after the blanket of stars on the open ocean.

 

She used to love this view.

 

Hook appears to be asleep, since her entrance doesn’t prompt a comment from him. She sees where he’s neatly folded his coat, shirt and vest over a chair, his boots tucked together beside the chair. The man does appreciate order.

 

She pours herself a glass of water from a bottle in the fridge, savoring the icy coldness of the chilled water as she leans back against the kitchen wall. If only it were so easy to figure out the rest of her situation as it is to quench her thirst, things would be a lot easier.

 

Hook’s muttering piques her curiosity, her thoughts interrupted by the indecipherable words. “Hook?” she calls softly, setting the glass down on the counter and crossing the room to check on him.

 

He’s sprawled on her couch, which is obviously too small for him, one leg hanging off and both feet sticking out from under the blanket. She can see the angry gash in his side, her stitches contrasting with the pale skin stretched over his ribs. He mutters something else, the words running together and too garbled to pull apart, but it sounds like he’s saying something about a bay.

 

She starts to turn away, but the furrow of his brow gives her pause. Whatever he’s dreaming about, it’s troubling him. With a sigh, she puts her hand on his shoulder, giving him a light shake. “Hook! Wake up!”

 

He startles awake, his hand darting out to snatch her wrist in an iron grip before his eyes pop open and recognize her. “Swan?” he asks, confusion in his sleep-filled voice. “It’s not yet dawn. What are you doing up?”

 

“Can’t sleep,” she answers after a pause, her eyes landing on Henry’s book sitting on the coffee table. “I came out to get a drink. It sounded like you were having a nightmare.”

 

“Aye.” He sits up, rubbing the back of his neck and wincing. “I must admit, Swan, I prefer a crew’s hammock to this awful bit of furniture. Not good for the stitches, neither.”

 

“Sorry.” She’s standing in front of him now, debating whether to sit or to keep standing there when he grabs her hand and makes the choice for her. “What are you…”

 

“It was all over your face, Swan.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not you or the lad. I swear it.”

 

Emma sighs, leaning back into the couch cushions and regarding him out of the corner of her eye. “The strange thing is, in spite of everything, I believe you. But I believe you would never _intentionally_ hurt me. You’re on a mission for vengeance. I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire. I don’t want _Henry_ caught in the crossfire.”

 

He doesn’t answer, because he has no reply. He supposes she’s right – the Dark One killed his own wife to spite him. There’s a likely chance he would go after Emma if it were known that Killian cared for her or her boy.

 

All the more reason to kill the bastard.

 

But he won’t say that, not now when Emma is sitting next to him, being honest. Instead, he leans forward, wincing at the pull on the stitches, and pulls Henry’s book onto his lap, flipping it open.

 

“It’s a book of fairytales.” Emma’s moved closer, her arm brushing his as she looks at the open book. She’s changed her clothes again, some sort of thin, stretchy black material covering her shapely legs and her arms exposed by her shirt. He should be focusing on the book, searching for clues to help Emma find the key to her magic so he can get his bloody hand back, but he can’t stop thinking about how her skin feels on his.

 

“It’s about the Enchanted Forest, love.” It’s a struggle to remain on task, but he manages it. He starts to flip through pages, skimming and scanning, until he comes to a drawing that seems familiar. “These are your parents on their wedding day. The kingdom spoke of little else, their happiness and the queen’s threats.”

 

“She threatened them at their wedding?”

 

“Aye, she arrived just after their vows and promised to ruin their happiness. She delivered.” He skims his finger over the paper, the words and ink and drawing blurring as memory takes over. He’d made sure to steer clear of the Charmings in those days, protecting his interests between drinking and finding pretty women to occupy his evenings.

 

“So my parents are the reason this town is cursed?”

 

“Regina is the reason the town is cursed.”

 

“What did they do to her?”

 

“I haven’t the faintest idea, love. Regina was your mother’s stepmother at one point. Perhaps something soured between them, then. She spent years as an outlaw, hiding out from the queen.”

 

“An outlaw? Like a thief?”

 

“Aye.” He smiles, a faint smile. “I believe you told me you yourself were a bit of a thief once. Like mother, like daughter.”

 

“Snow White is a thief. Huh.” Emma shakes her head, turning away from the book to study his face in the dim light. There’s small scars, here and there, and she wonders if there’s a story behind them. But she won’t ask, not tonight when he’s quiet beside her in her dark apartment and she’s feeling overwhelmed by the day. “They got a lot wrong.”

 

“Like me and the hat business?”

 

“Yeah. Snow White wouldn’t kill a fly in the version I grew up with.” Emma shakes her head, running her finger over the portrait of the woman who is supposed to be her mother. “This version feels a little more…real.”

 

“They are real, Emma.”

 

She smiles at him, a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s being oddly serious, and she doesn’t miss how he uses her actual name when he says it, not one of the countless other names he’s come up with in their time together. It’s too intimate, too close to making his way closer to her, and so she gets to her feet. “I should go back to trying to sleep,” she tells him. “I’m sure it will be a long day tomorrow.”

 

“I could join you. You didn’t seem to have trouble falling asleep in my bed.” He lifts an eyebrow at her in challenge, the mischief she’s come to know sparking in his eyes. “The lad is of a more appropriate size to occupy this…thing you’ve got me sleeping on.”

 

“I don’t want to wake him.”

 

“It would be simple enough to move the lad without waking him. Children sleep deeply…if that’s the only reason you’ve got to turn down my offer.”

 

“I told you, Hook, I’m not interested.”

 

“Your kiss indicates otherwise.”

 

“Not that again.” Emma sighs, too tired to even get truly angry with him. “I told you…”

 

“Aye, I recall. Proving a point. Allow me to prove mine. I’ve kissed many women in my years, and…”

 

“Really? You want to tell me about all the women you’ve been with to convince me I have feelings for you?” Emma cuts in, her temper beginning to flare in spite of her fatigue. “I don’t know what works in the Enchanted Forest or whatever other crazy places you’ve been, but around here, detailing your past exploits is hardly endearing.”

 

He smirks, and it’s the sort of smirk that makes Emma want to slap him, all smugness and bravado. “Jealous, love?”

 

“You’re disgusting.” Emma shoves the book off her leg and gets to her feet, not looking back once on her way to the bedroom. He debates following her, but he’s hit a nerve and he knows it.

 

Killian waits until he hears the door close behind her again, his eyes squeezing shut and his hand scrubbing over his face. He’s exhausted, his ribs hurt, and he’s not looking forward to the morning’s battle.

 

Emma is too stubborn to be rational tonight, and it doesn’t help that he’s made it worse. He really should learn his lesson – she plainly is unwilling to talk about whatever is going on between them. But he craves the fire of her responses, and he’s learned something tonight, something that makes him more certain that ever it’s worth pressing his case – she’s jealous of the women of his past.

 

She says she’s not, but he knows better. Emma’s vehemence in her reply tells a different story. She wants him all right, but she’s skittish as a stray cat on the docks.

 

He frowns at the book in his lap, tracing the thick gold lettering on the leather cover. In all his travels, he’s never even heard of a book like this, a book that details the history of Emma’s family in such detail. He’ll need to examine it closer, see if perhaps there are further clues about this prophecy and Emma, about what it is that she’ll need to do to break the curse.

 

The trouble will be getting the sequence of events to fall in the proper order. Emma needs to break the curse, for her boy, to find her parents, but he needs to put the crocodile down before the Dark One has his magic back.

 

So it’s settled then. Get the boy back to Storybrooke without having Emma discovered. Find a way for Emma to break the curse, but not before she’s learned enough magic to restore his hand so he can execute his revenge at long last.

 

All while somehow managing to convince her she has feelings for him, that in spite of their circumstances in meeting, she’s got a fire that he craves for warmth. He’s been alive a long while, and there have been many, many women in his life, most for just a night. In his line of work, he does well to read people quickly, make an assessment of them, and act accordingly.

 

Emma Swan is the sort of woman he’s willing to tear out his heart for, without even realizing he’s done it until it’s over. That’s a fact that he knows.

 

But she’s also distrustful, suspicious, and stubborn. Aye, she’s clever on occasion too, and Storybrooke is a piece of her world far more than his, in spite of its origin. He doesn’t understand the rules here.

 

He sighs, pushing the book back onto the low table and attempting to get comfortable beneath his blanket. He doesn’t care what Emma says – once the boy is back in Storybrooke, Emma will be back on his ship and in his bed. It won’t be safe for her anywhere else.

 

He just has to convince her of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Storybrooke!


	14. Chapter 14

“This one is hot water. This one is cold water. Turn it toward the sink to make it hotter or colder. Toward the wall to turn it off. Got it?”

 

Killian is staring at her, arms crossed over his chest, looking like she’s suggested he take a stroll over some hot coals.

 

“Where does the water come from?” he asks, peering suspiciously at the showerhead.

 

“From the pipe. There’s a heater….somewhere in this building.” It’s taking everything in her not to laugh at the expression on his face, a mix of contempt and confusion and curiosity all rolled into one. “Listen, we need to get on the road, so, I’ll just grab you a towel. You can just use my stuff since that’s the only option. That one is for your hair. That one’s for…the rest of you,” she finishes awkwardly, pointing at the bottles of shampoo and body wash, her cheeks turning pink in spite of her very strong desire for them not to.

 

“Sure you can’t stay to assist me?” His eyes are hopeful, wide and blue and for a split second, tempting. But it’s the smugness, the way his eyes flicker to her pink cheeks, that makes it easy to refuse him.

 

“I have to find something acceptable to feed Henry for breakfast. You’ll be fine.” She nods toward the dials. “Turn it to the temperature you want it at while I grab a towel. It takes a minute to heat up, so be _patient_.”

 

He scowls at her back, turning back toward the shower. With some fiddling, he manages to get the water on, soaking his sleeve in the process. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, the wet fabric clinging to his skin. He starts to unbutton his shirt, and he’s got it nearly off when Emma walks back in.

 

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he tells her with a smirk, letting the shirt fall to the floor. It’s impossible for her to hide her interest completely, and he savors the momentary victories, the way her skin flushes slightly, her eyes darting around just a little too fast.

 

“Whatever. Towel.” She sets it on the vanity counter with a sigh, turning for the door. But she stops, hesitates, and turns back to him again. “Do you, uh…do you need help with?” She nods toward the brace holding the hook to his arm, the leather straps that look complicated to her. “I’m guessing you’re not supposed to get the leather part wet.”

 

Her offer stuns him, and she sees the shock written all over his face in the increasingly warm bathroom. She waits for the comment sure to follow, the joke about wet leather, the none too subtle attempt to draw her into the shower along with him, but instead his expression goes carefully blank. “No, thank you, Swan. I’m capable of managing on my own.”

 

“Oh. Okay, then. Just…shout if you need me. Try not to drown.” She smiles, wondering if he’ll remember the joke, but he just nods, his eyes on the floor. It’s unsettling to see, and it makes her hesitate before leaving, but leave she does.

 

She’s found the chink in his armor, but she almost wishes she hadn’t.

 

She leans back against the closed door, trying not to listen to the rustle of clothing being removed, trying not to think about Hook in her shower, naked…or that flash of pain in his eyes when she asked if he wanted her help. It’s the sound of Henry calling her name from the kitchen that snaps her out of it, forces her to move away from the door and toward her entire reason for continuing on in this bargain with Hook.

 

“All right, kid, let’s see what we can do about breakfast.” Emma opens the cabinet, finding a box of instant oatmeal that she hopes isn’t expired. “You like oatmeal?”

 

“Sure.” Henry is on a stool at the island, the book open before him. “Got any juice?”

 

Emma winces, knowing her refrigerator contains last night’s pizza, some beer and water, and little else. “Afraid not. I don’t suppose you drink coffee?”

 

“I’m eight.”

 

“Right. We’ll get you some juice on the way. Hook should be out of the shower soon and then we can go.” Emma leans back against the counter, listening to the hum of the microwave as Henry’s oatmeal heats up. She can only imagine Hook’s fascination with the microwave – she expects it’ll be another “magic box” according to him.

 

If she’s being honest, that might actually be her description of the microwave, too.

 

“He seems okay.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Hook. He seems okay.” Henry flips another page of his book, like he’s looking for something. “How did you meet him here?”

 

“It’s…uh….complicated.” The microwave dings, and Emma turns to open it, carefully pulling out the hot bowl and giving the contents a good stir before opening the cabinet back up. “Do you want me to put anything in this? Honey? Cinnamon? I think I’ve got sugar in here somewhere.”

 

“Cinnamon.” Emma nods, sprinkling a bit of the spice in the oatmeal before sliding the bowl in front of him.

 

“Thanks.” Henry dips his spoon into the bowl, but he looks back at her. “Complicated?”

 

“He…came here to find me.”

 

“I wonder how he knew.”

 

Emma shrugs, turning her attention to the coffee pot as she pours herself a cup, taking a slow sip of the hot liquid. It’s not the best cup of coffee – it’s the latest of the grocery store brands that was on sale – but it tastes amazing. She folds her fingers around the mug, leaning back against the counter.

 

“Swan, you might have warned me I was about to smell like a harlot when you…good morning, Henry.” Hook has the decency to look mildly ashamed of himself when he catches sight of Henry sitting at the island with his breakfast.

 

“I think you just called my mom a harlot.”

 

“I…”

 

“There’s coffee.” Emma shoves a mug of it into his hands, her eyes dancing with amusement as she looks between him and her son. Truth be told, it’s a little odd to have him so near and smelling faintly of coconut instead of salt and sweat and rum, but there’s something incredibly attractive about the mop of messy, wet hair strewn across his forehead.

 

“Ah, delightful.” He chuckles at Emma’s surprised glance, his rings clinking against the mug. “I’ve seen many lands in my travels. Your realm is not the only one with coffee.”

 

“Great. Well, that’s settled. Henry, you good to go?”

 

“Just a moment, Swan.” He leans closer, lowering his voice. “We ought to discuss this. You can’t simply turn up in the middle of town with the lad.”

 

“She doesn’t know what I look like, as far as we know. I’m simply going to return Henry, and then stay for a bit.” She swallows the last of her coffee, rinsing the mug and putting it on the rack to dry. “So I’m going to drive him back, and you’re going to meet us there on your ship.”

 

“Swan, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

 

“Why, because you didn’t come up with it?” she hisses, too quietly for Henry to hear. “It will be fine, Hook,” she says, louder, pocketing her phone. “I’m just going to go pack a bag and we’ll get going. I can drop you near the dock.”

 

He follows her into her bedroom, watching as she pulls out a worn duffle and starts shoving things into it. “It isn’t safe.”

 

“I can take care of myself.”

 

“In your world, perhaps, but you have no control over your magic. Regina is smart, and one of the most powerful wielders of magic in any realm.”

 

“Look, our deal is simple. It doesn’t give you authority to tell me what to do, or how to go about it. I haven’t gone back on my word – I’m still going to try my best to give you back your hand. But that’s where my obligation to you ends. I’m doing this my way.” Emma doesn’t look at him while she speaks, pulling clothes from her closet and putting them into the bag. She zips it with a sharp tug, turning back to the closet for her red leather jacket and shrugging into it before turning back to him. “You want a ride to the dock or not?”

 

“You will meet me on my ship when I dock. And you will stay with me.”

 

“I don’t know where I’m staying yet. I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

 

“This is bloody ridiculous. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

 

“And if I do, you get your hand from Regina instead of me.”

 

“You think the bloody hand is the only reason I don’t want you dead? Have you not been paying any attention at all?”

 

“Don’t.” It’s only one word, but it’s ice cold, the warning in her voice loud and clear.

 

“Why not, Swan?” He steps closer, getting into her space, rattling her. He can see it in her eyes, how nervous he makes her when he gets close like this, when there’s a chance he might kiss her or touch her or somehow toe over the careful line she’s drawn between them. He knows he shouldn’t push her, should be more patient, but he _needs_ her to understand.

 

“Henry is in the next room. Stop it.” Emma grabs her bag off the bed, turning her back on him and leaving the room. He can hear her, talking to her son, the clinking of dishes as she cleans up his breakfast. She’s nervous, chattering on about nothing he comprehends, and he hates that he can tell by her voice that she’s on edge.

 

He hates that he’s part of the reason, because he just couldn’t help himself.

 

She’s bundling Henry back into his coat when he emerges, and for a second, he sees her as just a mother getting her son ready for the cool fall day. Her blonde head is bent toward his, her attention carefully focused on looping his scarf around him. He hasn’t thought about what it would be like to have a family of his own for so long, he’d almost forgotten what that pang of want feels like. It catches him off-guard, the wanting, and he looks away, banishing the thought as he tugs on his own coat.

 

“The _Jolly_ will have me to town by nightfall. Come to the docks at midnight.”

 

“You don’t want a ride?”

 

“I prefer to walk, Swan. We’ll save the introduction of cars for another day.”

 

“Oh. Okay.” He can see the confusion in her eyes, but he hasn’t the patience for it. She wants to do things her way, fine then. He needs to put some space between them anyway, remember that he’s come to this realm for a crocodile skin, not to waste time wishing for a life he wasn’t meant for with a stubborn, foolish woman.

 

Emma watches him go, a strange tug in the pit of her stomach as he disappears with a swish of his coat and the click of the door latch. “It’s okay. He’ll be back,” Henry tells her, his backpack on his shoulder.

 

“Oh yeah? How are you so sure?”

 

“You’re not ready to hear it.”

 

“Henry!”

 

“It’s all right, Mom. Can we get that juice now?”

 

Emma sighs, grabbing her keys. “Sure, kid.”

 

It’s a long drive back to Storybrooke, miles of empty highway between them. She stops to get Henry his promised juice and some breakfast for herself, unable to keep her thoughts from drifting to Hook. She wonders if he’s back on board his ship by now, if he’s had breakfast other than the coffee she poured him.

 

But she banishes the thoughts, asking careful questions of Henry about the town. It’s a marvel to hear, how the time is frozen on a clock tower in the center of town, how none of the inhabitants seem to change. Henry tells her how the same people walk the same paths, so that he can predict down to the second when they’ll cross the street with their dogs or spill coffee on themselves…and none of them seem to notice.

 

The problem of how to get past the townspeople isn’t a difficult one – it seems they may forget about her as soon as they see her. She’ll just need to avoid one person – Regina. She works out a plan with Henry, to drop him off with her, to explain she’s not actually Emma Swan, that Henry was mistaken. She’ll give a false name, and then she’ll use her time in town to figure out how to break the curse.

 

She’ll fill Hook in when she sees him, tonight.

 

She doesn’t know what it is she expected from Storybrooke, but the normalcy of its appearance still surprises her. It’s like any other small town on the Maine coast – a little run down, with an old Main Street that looks like it’s been the same for the last fifty years. It’s the middle of the afternoon when they arrive, so the lack of people out and about isn’t surprising, but it’s still a little eerie as they drive past the clock tower.

 

“I’m surprised you didn’t run away sooner, kid.”

 

Henry shrugs, watching the landscape pass through the windows. “There wasn’t anywhere to go.”

 

They pull up in front of Regina’s house, and Emma can help but stare at the massive white house. “Not a bad place to live.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“Uh huh.” She sighs, taking a look at the house once more before turning back to Henry. “You ready for this, kid?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Okay.” Emma takes a deep breath, impulsively reaching across the seat to squeeze his hand. “When this is all over…I’m looking forward to getting to know you. I’m really glad we’re getting a second chance.”

 

“Me too.”

 

Emma smiles, a soft, sad smile, before getting out of the car and putting on her game face. It’s a good thing she’s spent so many years pretending to be other people, otherwise she’s not sure she’d be able to get through this.

 

Henry puts on a good show, trudging up the walk like he’s just lost his puppy. The door swings open before Emma can raise her hand to knock, revealing an attractive but severe woman in a pencil skirt and jacket. “Henry!” she exclaims, bending to wrap her arms around him. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been so worried.”

 

“Hi. I’m Emily.” Emma smiles her best trustworthy, inviting smile, shoving down the worry that burns in her stomach at watching the woman hold her son. “He…uh…he showed up late last night at my apartment. He thought he had found…his mom?”

 

“Emily, you say?” Regina rises to her full height, staring coldly at Emma. “Where, exactly, do you live?”

 

“Boston. He said he was looking for a woman named Emma Swan? Not sure who she is, but I figured I better bring your kid back.” Emma smiles sweetly. “I don’t have kids myself, but I figured you must have been really worried.”

 

“Yes, I was.” Regina directs her glare at Henry, who does a very convincing job of looking ashamed of himself. “Henry, go to your room. I’ll deal with you later.” She turns her attention back to Emma as Henry disappears into the house, regarding her with thinly veiled suspicion. “Well, Emily, I appreciate you returning him. I’m sure you’re anxious to get home.”

 

“I actually thought I’d make it worth the drive up here and maybe stay for a few days. It’s a really cute town. Nice to get out of the city.”

 

Regina’s smile is icy. “I see. Well, enjoy.” The door closes in Emma’s face as Regina disappears inside.

 

“Aren’t you just delightful,” Emma mutters to herself as she turns back down the walk, keys in hand. She’s not entirely sure what she’s going to do with herself, with hours to go before she’s set to meet Hook and fill him in, but she supposes finding somewhere to stay is a good place to start.

 

Pulling out her phone to check the time, Emma nearly walks into the man on the sidewalk. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, looking up to find an attractive man wearing the Sheriff’s badge in her way. “I’m Emily. I was just returning Henry to his mom.”

 

“Nice thing of you to do, Emily.” He extends a hand, grasping her gloved palm with an easy grip. “I’m Graham, the town Sheriff.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Sheriff.” Emma smiles up at him, batting her eyelashes coyly. “I was just telling Henry’s mom that I thought I might spend a few days here, enjoy some time out of the city since I drove up. I don’t suppose you could point me in the direction of a place to stay?”

 

“How did the boy end up with you?”

 

She laughs, letting her fingers brush against his chest. “Of course, doing your job. He thought I was someone else – Emma Swan? Said she was his real mother. But I’ve never heard of her. He said he took a bus to Boston, but it just didn’t seem safe to put him on one back. I had a few vacation days coming to me so…” She smiles again, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “I thought I might make a trip of it. See if there’s anything…interesting…in Maine.”

 

She sees the shift, the moment where he decides she’s not a threat anymore, but instead an attractive woman flirting with him. His posture changes, his shoulders relaxing and his weight settling into his heels, pushing his hips forward ever so slightly. Men – so predictable.

 

“I have to check on Henry, make sure Regina’s all right, but…there’s a diner in town. Could I perhaps buy you a cup of coffee? Tell you a little bit about our town?” His offer is exactly what she’s been angling for, since an interest in a local is a convenient excuse to stay once her “long weekend” is up, but it still tugs at her in an odd way.

 

“That would be great.” Emma runs her fingers through her hair like she’s trying to be subtle about adjusting it, smiling up at him. “Is it back on Main Street? I drove in that way.”

 

“Indeed it is. Granny’s Diner. She also runs a bed and breakfast, since you’ll be in need of a room. I can meet you there in an hour?”

 

“Sounds great, Graham.” She uses his name purposefully, pleased to see the interest spark in his eyes. “I look forward to it.” She walks away, turning back to look over her shoulder coyly before she gets in the car.

 

He’s watching, just like she thought he would be.

 

Emma smiles to herself as she gets in the car. It’s nice to feel like she’s in control again, not stuck operating under someone else’s rules and plans. This town may be cursed but some things don’t change when it comes to how people are. Her work has taught her to read people quite well, and it’s going to come in handy now.

 

Her interaction with the proprietress of Granny’s and her erstwhile granddaughter is curious, at best. They both seem shocked she actually wants a room, rushing about to help her up the stairs and settled into a shabby but clean room with a view of the street. She thanks them both, wondering just how it is that this town has existed all these years without a single person venturing inside.

 

It’s a powerful curse, indeed, if it’s managed to maintain itself here, with electricity and gas stations and a Sherriff’s office. She’s not sure how it’s been done, what with the electrical grid and gas deliveries that would normally be needed, but if no one new has come to town…

 

She flops back on the bed, stretching and enjoying the moment’s peace. She hasn’t been alone in days, with Hook or Henry constantly by her side. It’s a relief to lie here, listening to the quiet and to breathe without someone watching her or needing something from her. Though the thought of Hook makes her stomach clench in an unexpected way – she imagines he’s not going to be so fond of the latest development in her plan.

 

Which is too bad for him. Emma knows what she’s about in this town – cursed or not, Storybrooke is filled with people who believe they’re from a small town in Maine, not a fairytale. She understands these people more than Hook wants to give her credit for.

 

The hour of peace passes too quickly for her liking.

 

“Showtime,” Emma mutters to herself, checking her appearance in the mirror and undoing one of the buttons on her shirt before heading down to meet the Sheriff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One reader saw this one coming awhile back, but I couldn't resist using Graham's presence to even the playing board between our pirate and savior. Emma's calling the shots now, whether he likes it or not ;) 
> 
>  
> 
> Just to let you guys who have gotten used to my update schedule know, the next chapter may be a few days. My best friend is getting married tomorrow (for those in the US, yes, on St. Patrick's Day...my fingernails are the most obnoxious green right now). Needless to say, I don't expect to be in any condition to write tomorrow, and Wednesday is questionable. At least it's not a cliff-hanger? See y'all in a few days!


	15. Chapter 15

It’s been many, many years behind the wheel of this particular ship – many, many years. Mostly, the years have slipped by without notice – the drudgery of Neverland, the fleeting peace and glimmer of happiness with Milah, the excitement of the seas – it all blends together. One adventure after another, winding down the years. It’s hard to believe most days that he’s been alive just as long as he has. He’ll see four hundred years before he’s done, he’s come to realize. Four centuries.

 

There are days he feels his age.

 

He is weary today. Weary of the seas, weary of the crew, weary of the wind burning his cheeks.

 

The walk back to the ship this morning was spent deep in thought. He spends too much time with Emma and his priorities get all tangled up in his desire for her. He starts to think about a future with her, and for flashes of time, his revenge seems less important. He’s losing focus.

 

It’s exhausting trying to keep all his chips in order.

 

Get to Storybrooke. Find Emma. Find the crocodile. Get his hand. Kill the crocodile. Help Emma break the curse.

 

And then what?

 

That’s the question he’s really struggling with – what comes next. What’s the _point_? After nearly four centuries, the majority of which he’s spent consumed with a desire for revenge, once he gets it, then what? In theory, he’ll begin to age in this realm, should he stay. He hasn’t seen much of it, but it’s not friendly to magic, and it’s definitely not a good place to be a pirate.

 

It’s the first time in a long time he’s given much thought to what comes after the next sunrise.

 

But it’s hard not to begin to wonder, about Emma, about the curse, about what he’s going to do with the years he has left. What does he want? Does he want the sea and this ship and a sword in his hand? Or does he want quiet moments in the middle of the night on strange furniture surrounded by a world he doesn’t quite understand with a woman who makes him question everything?

 

He spent the walk back trying to remind himself of his revenge, of all his reasons, and how they all need to come in front of Emma and any desire he has for her, any wish he has for a future with her. But as he spies the Storybrooke harbor with the setting sun at his back, he can feel calmness washing over him. It’s hard to deny the reason – Emma is near.

 

The ship is too quiet without her in his ear, complaining or threatening or sulking below. He misses opening the door to his cabin to find her there. And he knows that the one night without her in his bed was one too many.

 

It’s funny, the way this woman has gotten into his blood. He liked Milah from the start, aye, that much is true. She had a fire to her, and she sparked his curiosity long before he knew she was the Dark One’s wife. He fell in love with her over time. But there’s something different about Emma, something _more_ that does something other than just pique his curiosity. She’s gotten under his skin, and he _wants_ when he thinks about her. Wants her in his bed. Wants her in his heart. Wants to be in hers.

 

Dark has fallen by the time the _Jolly_ is tied up, the crew anxious. He hasn’t quite sorted out what he’s going to say to Regina, how he’s going to explain his return so soon, but he’s hoping Emma has managed to stay out of sight. He’s banking on coming up with something together, when midnight arrives and she resumes her rightful place on board. He intended to spend the journey having this particular discussion, but Emma had other plans.

 

He passes the time by drinking rum and sharpening his sword, methodically running a stone over the blade until it’s sharp enough to split the skin on his thumb with barely a touch – or skin a crocodile.

 

Midnight approaches, and he finds himself pacing, anxious. Captain Hook is not an anxious man, but his cool indifference is hard to find this evening. It’s especially hard to find once midnight comes and goes, and there’s no sight of Emma.

 

It’s all he can do to stay on board his ship and not go hunting her in the town.

 

Just before one, he hears her. She’s been drinking by the sounds of it, her words slow and careful when she greets Smee on watch above. He can hear her unsteady steps on the boards, and when she finally appears, he’s waiting.

 

He does not like the picture she presents.

 

Emma’s hair is long and loose, tangled from walking in the wind. But that’s not what really gets him – it’s the way her shirt is unbuttoned, a creamy expanse of flesh on display. She smiles at him as she leans back on the closed door, but the smile is too loose, too heavy with liquor for him to enjoy it.

 

“You’re late.” It’s hard not to shout at her, not to demand to know where she’s been and why she’s in this state, but he’s not going to get answers out of her that way. He’s learned that much. Instead, he’ll seethe quietly, wait for her to give him what he wants, and _then_ he’ll make the full extent of his displeasure known.

 

“I was busy.” She shrugs, and her indifference makes his blood boil. That’s _his_ move, the shrug, the barest hint of a care, and it’s a move he can’t seem to execute tonight.

 

“Drinking the town’s supply of liquor?”

 

The shrug comes again. “I have a _plan_ , Hook. I was working on my _plan_.” She pauses, a smirk stealing onto her lips. “Do you have a plan?”

 

“Swan, you ought…”

 

“That would be a no. So do you want to hear my plan?” She stumbles as she moves away from the door, catching herself on the back of one of the chairs before falling into it. Her clumsiness doesn’t phase her, and she only laughs at his scowl. “Relax. It’s all part of the plan. Might have had a bit more than I meant to but it doesn’t matter.”

 

“What’s this plan?”

 

“Well, you see, Henry and I decided that we would tell his…Regina…that my name is _Emily_. And I am _not_ his mother. So he pretended to be all upset – that kid is a great little actor, remind me of that if he gets himself in trouble – and I think she bought it. She plainly didn’t want me around, but I played the card that I’d already driven all the way up here to return her kid.”

 

“I see.”

 

“And _then_.” Her grin widens, and her eyes watch him as she says it, the cherry on top. “Then I met this _guy_ , and he’s _perfect_ , because now I have an excuse to stay in town.”

 

“That’s where you’ve been? Drinking with some man you’ve just met? A man, who for all you know, is a spy for Regina and will slit your throat the second she commands it?” He doesn’t mean to keep on, but he’s getting angrier and angrier the longer this conversation lasts. The words grow lower, tenser, until he’s practically growling at her.

 

“Don’t be jealous.”

 

“I’m not _jealous_ , Swan! I’m worried for your bloody safety. Lucky thing, since you have no regard for it.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. I can handle myself.”

 

“Not in this world you bloody can’t. The town is _cursed_ , Swan. Nothing happens here by chance. All is as Regina wills it to be. If a man befriended you, took you out for all hours of the night, he had a purpose.”

 

Emma flushes, her own anger rising as she glares back at him. “Because it’s so unbelievable that maybe he just _liked_ me and wanted to spend the evening with me? Is that what you meant to say?”

 

“Don’t be daft.”

 

“Whatever. I came here, I told you the plan, and now I’m leaving. You tell Regina you couldn’t find me, that you searched all over Boston, but I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. You met some girl named Emily, but she was definitely not Snow White’s daughter. When we eventually cross paths, we’re meeting for the first time. Got it?” She lurches out of her chair, scowling the whole way, eyebrows pulled together tightly under the power of her glare.

 

“Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?” he demands as he watches her turn for the door, reaching for her before she gets too far and tugging her back.

 

“Back to my room. I told you, I’m not staying here with you.”

 

“You are a bloody fool.” He scrapes his hand over his face, weary beyond reckoning. “Have you any idea how dangerous it is for you in this town, wandering about by yourself? You think you’ve fooled Regina, but many a poor soul has made the mistake of underestimating her. You will stay here.”

 

“No. I’m going back to the inn. How am I supposed to explain staying anywhere but in the room I’ve paid for? It doesn’t exactly help the idea that I’m hanging around for an interest in Graham if I’m spending the night on your ship.” She rolls her eyes, and for a very brief moment, he pictures it.

 

He hauls her close, presses every inch of his body to hers, and backs her across the room until her back hits the door, devouring her with kisses until she understands what it is to be his, and his alone. She gives in, finally, because he _knows_ he’s not alone in this, that she’s just stubborn and afraid, but she’s here, and he’ll be damned if she slips through his fingers to some idiot named Graham. It’s a rush of her hands on him, his hand in her hair, under her shirt, on her soft skin, and he lifts one of her legs to his hip, pressing against her in a way that makes them both groan…

 

He blinks and the image is gone, a very angry Emma in front of him with her hands on her hips, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “Don’t even think about it,” she threatens darkly, taking a step away from him. “I’m not remotely in the mood.”

 

“Haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“You can’t kiss me again.”

 

He realizes belatedly it must have been all over his face, his thoughts of Emma in his arms and backed up against his door, but his lips curve into a sly grin anyway. “Wouldn’t have considered it if you hadn’t brought it up, love.”

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“Afraid not. Do you know what I think, Swan? I think you’ve perhaps had a bit to drink, and it’s a bit harder than normal for you to deny there’s something between us. I think you _want_ me to kiss you, so in the morning, you can simply tell yourself you’d had a bit of drink and I took advantage, pirate that I am.” He’s advanced on her as he’s said it, but she hasn’t moved, watching him. He can see her pulse jumping in her neck, and the rise of color in her cheeks, but she doesn’t back down as he reaches for her, runs the curve of the hook along her back, slides his hand into her hair. “I have a secret for you, darling,” he whispers in her ear, bending close enough to smell her hair and the way the cold night air clings to her skin. “I won’t be making it that easy.”

 

He starts to pull away, fully prepared to chalk a mark in the win column for this particular battle though the war is far from over. But Emma’s hands dart out, latch onto his lapels and pull him back, her lips inches from his. It’s an exercise in self-control to stand still under her inspection, to not close the space between them, but he’s making a point tonight.

 

He knows he can’t let this go any further, if she does make a move. She’s well into her cups, and though he’s been at the rum himself, he’s fully aware of the lay of the land. Allowing anything with Emma this night – no matter how hard it is to push her away – is not the way to her heart. It would be a good tumble, that much he’s _positive_ of, and perhaps that first night he would have taken it, but things have changed.

 

Emma’s eyes stare into his, searching, her lips inches from his. He can feel her breath, feel the warmth of her body pressed to his, and his eyes slide shut almost involuntarily as he feels her shift her weight. He can’t turn down a kiss – just _one_ kiss can’t hurt.

 

He hears her gasp as she yanks herself away from him, feels the loss of her warmth as his eyes crack open to see her backpedaling, her hands reaching for purchase against the door. “I have to go,” she manages to tell him, but he sees it in the second her eyes meet his, the burn of desire and _want_.

 

“Be careful, love.” His eyes burn into hers, and she isn’t sure if he means in the town or with him. The truth is, he isn’t quite sure what he meant either, but she nods slowly before slipping out the door.

 

Emma leaves the ship quickly – as quickly as she can manage with the amount of tequila she’s had to drink. She came to tell Hook her plan, to catch him up and go back to her room to fall asleep in her happy, hopeful place and instead…

 

She forces herself to walk slowly back to Granny’s, her hands buried in her pockets. The night is cold, her breath steaming in front of her as she walks. She slows that down too, struggling to just breathe and put one foot in front of the other.

 

It’s been a weird night.

 

Her “date” with Graham was surreal. She was playing a part – mostly. _Emily_ didn’t have an unhappy childhood bouncing from foster home to foster home. She’s happy and bubbly and loves living in Boston. Graham likes Emily. He’s flirty and charming, and Emma _likes_ talking to him. It’s easy to talk with him, to drink with him, to let herself get lost in the soft burr of his voice.

 

She didn’t intend to be late for her meeting with Hook. She knows he cares about her, more than he should given their arrangement and meeting. She knows that her upsetting his plan to travel together upset him more than he let on.

 

She knows he wants her. He’s made it obvious enough. But it’s shifting, his want. That first night, when she was angry and confused and trapped, he wanted her because he found her attractive. He was crass, bordering on obscene.

 

But he’s not like that, anymore. It’s only been days since he was drugging her in her apartment, but she’s watched the look in his eyes shift. He’s softened, at least toward her. Tonight, when she was so close to forgetting all the reasons why she _can’t_ get involved with him, when she was teetering on the edge of giving in and probably would have if he had pushed her even a little, he just stood there. He watched, _waited_ for her to decide. He talks a good game, but when it came down to it he completely left it up to her.

 

It’s why she had to leave.

 

The innuendo, the simmering tension between them, her undeniable physical attraction to him…it’s tempting enough. But when he’s soft, when he sits beside her on her couch in the dead of night and talks about her family, it’s harder. And when she shows up in his quarters, drunk, telling him she’s spent the evening with another man, his jealousy obvious, he just…waits – and that’s the hardest of all.

 

He’s a pirate. He’s supposed to take advantage of drunk girls. He’s supposed to grin that scandalous grin of his, and then he’s supposed to take her to bed with zero regrets. She’s dated men like him nearly her entire life. But this other version of him, the one whose eyes slid closed with anticipation of her kiss, he’s _dangerous_ because there’s something about that vulnerability that gets to her far more than any suggestive look or simmering tension.

 

She’s trying to remember all the reasons she can’t. He kidnapped her. He drugged her. He was going to drop her god knows where, just so he could come back to this town and kill a man, all before sailing off again to continue on his merry way while her son and parents remained behind.

 

It’s just that the man who did all those things feels somehow separated from the man she saw tonight.

 

She’s exhausted by the time she drops into bed, but sleep is a long time coming. Her dreams are fragments of images, the crash of waves and the glint of a sword in sunlight. She’s running through lush, bright green forest, ancient towering trees and soft moss under his bare feet, but just as suddenly, she’s standing alone on an endless beach, watching a storm roll across the waves toward her. Lighting forks across the purple-gray clouds, and she braces herself, but the crash of thunder still makes her jump.

 

The thunder is real enough, startling her awake with a gasp in her bed at Granny’s, her heart in her throat. She shivers, the wind rattling the old windows as the rain pours down the glass.

 

Sleep is long in returning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First day of spring and it's snowing. For the love....


	16. Chapter 16

 

Storybrooke is a surreal place.

 

Emma falls into an easy rhythm playing Emily. She’s been on assignments before that have taken days of undercover work to accomplish, and this isn’t so different. If anything, it’s easier. She’s mostly herself, but, well, happier. Emily doesn’t have a tragic past – Emily isn’t suspicious and trying to figure out how to use magic she still sometimes has flickers of doubt about.

 

Emily _does_ see a whole lot of Graham.

 

It’s hard to remember sometimes that she’s playing a part when he turns his gaze on her, eyes wide and intent, all his focus on her when she speaks. They meet for coffee at Granny’s one afternoon, lunch another.

 

He’s charming, and he’s very easy on the eyes, but Emma remembers Hook’s warning. She didn’t want to admit it that night, but he’s right – she doesn’t know this town. This is Regina’s curse. Anyone could be a spy for the evil queen, even Graham. It’s crucial she remain in character. A slip could prove very dangerous indeed.

 

She hasn’t seen Hook since that night on his ship. She’s supposed to meet him tonight, to check in and figure out how their plan is progressing. On the one hand, she’s learning plenty about the town, and she’s pretty sure that her presence is changing things. The clock above the library has moved – she’s almost positive of it.

 

She’s met her mother – or least the woman Henry says is her mother. Mary Margaret Blanchard. The last name fits for her being Snow White, and that experience was perhaps the most surreal of all. They’re the same age, what with the curse and all, and the cursed Snow White is a bubbly, happy schoolteacher. She likes Emily, too.

 

Emma likes her, wants to trust her. It’s too strange to think of her as _mom_ just yet, but she can’t deny she feels a connection to the woman that’s impossible to explain.

 

Her father is a mystery. Henry has no idea who Prince Charming is hidden within in the town’s residents. Mary Margaret is very single. She wonders just how deep this curse goes, just how powerful Regina’s magic is – her parents are supposed to represent True Love. They always find a way back to each other, at least, that’s what Henry’s book promises. But here, they don’t know who they are, and they don’t even know each other.

 

It makes hope a hard thing to come by.

 

Especially because as much as she’s learning about the town, she’s made zero progress with her magic abilities. She’s not entirely sure the storm the night she went to Hook’s ship was entirely natural, but that’s the only hint of magic she’s seen thus far. Last night, after sharing a bottle of wine with Mary Margaret at Granny’s over grilled cheese, she sat in her room staring at a candle for two hours trying to make it flare to life.

She didn’t get so much as a spark.

 

She’ll have to tell him, tonight. This time, she’s going over there sober. She can’t have a repeat of the last time. Her face flushes at the memory, the way she grabbed him, pulled him against her, and very nearly kissed him. The worst part is that even once the tequila wore off, she couldn’t deny it anymore – she wants him.

 

It’s not just a passing flash of lust. It’s desire, hot and molten in her veins. It’s not the same way she’s attracted to Graham. It’s something else, something that twists in her belly and crawls down her spine with a shiver when she lets her thoughts wander in his direction.

 

She tells herself it’s just because she _can’t_ that she wants to so badly. Graham is, by all appearances, available, interested, and gorgeous. He’s a gentleman – the most he’s done is hold her hand or kiss her cheek, in spite of the fact that they’ve had threes dates. She’s meeting him shortly for a late lunch during his break today, and that will be date number four. Maybe he’ll kiss her. It could be nice. But she doesn’t want a kiss from him the way she wants one from Hook, with a needy, desperate desire.

 

With a groan of frustration, she gets in the shower and gets ready for her date. Today, she’s going to see if she can find out a bit more about how the curse works. So far, Graham has yet to really talk about his history – where he grew up, his parents, any of it. So she’s going to ask and see what, if anything, he remembers.

 

She slides into the booth across from him with a smile. “Hey,” she offers in greeting, grabbing his hand resting on the table and squeezing lightly.

 

“Hello, love.” He squeezes back, an easy smile meeting her. “Have a good morning?”

 

“Yeah! I went for a walk on the beach. It’s so pretty up here. Nice to be out of the city.” Emma puts an extra bit of enthusiasm in her voice, turns up the chipper in her smile. “It makes me want to stay awhile.”

 

“Selfishly, it’s lovely to have you. But I imagine you have a life to get back to.”

 

She shrugs, glancing out the window. “I actually got fired from my job right before Henry showed up looking for Emma.” She hesitates, bites her lip, makes herself the picture of insecurity and shame. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. It’s just…not a good opening line, you know? Hi, I’m Emily, and I just got fired so I think I’ll hang out for a few days and avoid my life.” Her gaze lifts, studying him through her eyelashes. “Especially when I met such a cute guy to distract me.”

 

He chuckles, and for a second, she hears Hook’s laugh instead, the low, throaty laughter she’s only heard on occasion when he’s bordering on relaxed, when he’s genuinely laughing instead of mocking her. She forces herself to focus on Graham instead, smiling at him while they place their orders.

 

She might actually have to start going for walks on that beach if she keeps eating so much grilled cheese.

 

“So, how long have you been Sheriff?” she asks, reaching across the table to trace her fingertip along the edge of his badge.

 

Graham shrugs, watching her trace the points of the star with her fingertip. “Awhile, I suppose. Hard to recall.”

 

“Did you grow up here in Storybrooke?”

 

“I…” He frowns, gently pushing her hand away. “I…can’t seem to recall.”

 

“Are you feeling all right?” She’s the picture of concern, leaning across the table to lay her palm on his forehead, her eyebrows knit together. “I’m sorry, if I’m prying. You can just tell me to shut up.”

 

“No, it’s not a problem.” He’s distracted now, and she can see him thinking, the wheels spinning frantically as he tries to recall details the curse has wiped from his memory. Henry isn’t sure who he was, before, but it’s clear he doesn’t remember any of it. “I just can’t seem to recall.”

 

“Maybe we should take our lunch to go? I can wait and bring it to you, if you want to go lay down.”

 

“Perhaps that would be best. There’s a couch at the station. It’s closer.” He rubs his eyes, blinking when he opens them again. The frown has settled between his brows, and she feels bad for the worry she’s causing him, the confusion and pain he must be feeling, but she has an answer now. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

 

She reaches out, rubs his arm sympathetically. “Of course not. Go lay down. I’ll be there in a few.” He nods, and she watches him go, unsteady on his feet and distracted as he wanders out of the diner.

 

Ruby packs up their lunch to go and Emma heads for the station. She won’t be staying long, but she’s got the concerned role to play. Her real concern, her real guilt for the pain she’s putting him through, she can’t let that show. Emily’s concern and Emma’s concern can’t mix together.

 

She finds Graham sprawled out on an old couch, his arm over his eyes and his booted feet hanging over the edge. He makes an attractive picture, but it doesn’t tug at her like it does with Hook.

 

Giving herself a firm mental shake, Emma kneels down next to Graham’s head and sets the bag on the floor. “I brought your lunch,” she says softly, gently pulling his arm from his eyes and running her fingers through his hair. “If you still want it.”

 

“I’m sorry, lass, but I’m not terribly hungry.” He catches her wrist, kisses her palm and offers a weak smile. “You’re lovely for bringing it, all the same.”

 

“Can I get you anything else? I feel so bad. If I hadn’t…”

 

“It’s not your fault, Emily. I’m the one who seems to have ruined our date.”

 

“It’s not ruined.” She smiles, leaning closer, hesitating just the right amount. Her gaze falls to his lips, her intent obvious. The recognition dawns in his eyes right before she brushes her lips against his, ever so lightly before pulling away. “A kiss to make it better,” she says sweetly.

 

He pulls her back, kisses her back, a kiss that should make her feel something, but it’s a struggle to put some enthusiasm in her response, to keep it hidden that she’s not just going through the motions.

 

She rocks back on her heels, offering him a shy smile. “I should go and let you rest.” Her voice is just the right amount of breathless, and she looks down at the floor before glancing at him again through her eyelashes.

 

He laughs, his thumb brushing over her cheek before his hand drops away. “You could stay, but…”

 

“I better not.” She rises to her feet, bending to press a kiss to his cheek. “Call me tomorrow? Let me know you’re okay?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Emma makes herself breathe slowly and evenly until she’s outside the station. It’s only then that she slips into the alley, leans back against the cold bricks with her eyes closed and lets herself go to pieces for just a moment.

 

“Just what the hell are you playing at, Swan?”

 

“Hook!” Emma’s eyes snap open as he emerges from the deeper shadows of the alley, a look of barely restrained fury on his face. She rushes to put herself back together, to wipe her face of the confusion and worry and guilt. “What are you doing here?” she hisses, twisting to look back at the street before pushing him further into the shadows and following. “It’s not even close to ten.”

 

“What am _I_ doing, Swan? What the bloody hell are _you_ doing?” He grabs her arm, pulling her closer and getting in her face, the color high in his cheeks with his temper. “You didn’t tell me it was the bloody Sheriff you’ve been dallying with.”

 

“What does it matter?”

 

“I’ve seen him sneaking out of Regina’s in the middle of the night.” It’s a furious whisper, his grip on her arm tightening almost painfully. “I’ve warned you, Swan. The people in this town are hers until you break the curse. You have no idea what he’s told her about you.”

 

“I’m sure it’s not what you think,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes and shaking out of his grip. “He likes Emily. He has no reason to turn on _her_.”

 

“Why? Because of that kiss?” He’s backed her up against the brick again, the words tearing from his lips. If she thought he was jealous the first night in town, it’s nothing compared to what she’s seeing now.

 

“How…have you been _spying_ on me?” She doesn’t care that he’s so close, that his chest is practically touching hers, his arms caging her in against the brick. The anger shoots through her, white hot, racing through her veins and making them burn. Infuriating pirate that he is, of course _jealousy_ is driving all of this.

 

“ _Spying_ , Swan? I’ve been keeping an eye on you, you bloody fool, so you don’t get yourself killed.” His eyes widen at the accusation, and she almost believes him, but his timing leaves a great deal up for debate.

 

“And this is the day you decide to step in? Because you saw me kiss Graham? _Now_ you want to tell me he’s been sleeping with Regina?” She laughs in his face, a bitter, angry laugh. “This is bullshit. You could have told me at any time, but you wait for me to kiss him to decide you have some earth-shattering reason I shouldn’t be near him.”

 

“You push a man to his limits, Swan.” He laughs, a dark growl of a chuckle as he draws closer. “I’ve tried, darling. I’ve tried to be the better man, but you see, I’m a pirate and I suppose I always will be.”

 

“What does that even…” The words are lost, her breath leaving her in a gasp of surprise as his lips crash into hers, his hips anchoring her to the wall as his hand tangles in her hair and his hook hovers at her waist. She knows she should push him away, should slap him, but now that he’s done it, now that the entire line of his body is pressed to hers and she can feel every last leather-clad inch of him, there’s only one choice left to her.

 

Kiss him back. Kiss him back with all the suppressed wanting and tension and lingering looks and innuendo that she’s been trying so hard to ignore. Kiss him back with unrestrained lust, because she _really_ shouldn’t want him this badly, but she does, and before logic and reason take back over, she has to just have this one moment in time where she knows what it is to be well and fully kissed by this man.

 

One hand works under his shirt, her palm flattening over his back as the other grips his hair, pulling him impossibly closer as their lips move together. Her breath shortens to pants, but she still can’t get enough of him, of the feel of his skin, the taste of him, the way his beard rasps against her cheeks as his mouth leaves hers, blazes a path down her throat. Her head falls back against the bricks, her fingers wandering over his ribs as his kisses work their way back across her jaw.

 

He jerks away from her touch involuntarily when she accidentally brushes against the still healing gash in his side. It’s enough to snap her out of her haze of lust, but she can’t bring herself to shove him away, not when he’s looking at her through heavy lids like he is. “Sorry, love. Where were we?” His voice is low, husky, and she can _hear_ that breathing has grown difficult for him as well.

 

“Hook…”

 

“Killian will do.”

 

She sucks in her breath as he leans in again, but this kiss is gentler, softer, his body melting into hers. She shouldn’t kiss him back, but her arms loop around his shoulders anyway, her lips meeting his as a very different sort of burn ignites in her blood. But more than anything, it’s the hopeful whisper that pulls her back in, the plea for her to call him by his _name_ , because in spite of having just told her he’s a pirate through and through, _Killian_ is something more.

 

A car door slams out on the street, startling Emma. She pushes back on his shoulders, her breath coming short and fast. “We shouldn’t…” She stops, because she doesn’t know if she wants to say _do this_ or _do this here_.

 

“Aye. I forget my manners, love.” He leans back in, brushing a kiss against her cheek with a gentleness she wouldn’t think him in possession of. “I shall see you at ten.” The smile he offers up over his shoulder as he turns back down the alley is unlike any of the ones she’s seen before it, content and _happy_ and it does something to her, something she wishes it wouldn’t, but it’s harder than ever to deny.

 

So she stands where she is, catching her breath and struggling to put herself back together (again) because a kiss has never rattled her the way this one has. Her knees feel like they’re made of jelly, while at the same time every muscle in her body feels wound tight, like she might just snap in two if she’s not careful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's 11:40 my time, so the muse and I made it by the skin of our teeth for a second chapter tonight. Things are starting to heat up in Storybrooke...


	17. Chapter 17

 

She goes back to her room, stomach grumbling from her lack of lunch after forgetting to get her grilled cheese out of the bag she left with Graham. There’s a vending machine out in the hallway, and she manages to cobble together a lunch of chips, a granola bar and some chocolate before flopping back on her bed, arms crossed behind her head as she stares up at the ceiling.

 

That kiss…she can’t stop thinking about it. She can’t stop thinking about _him_.

 

The look in his eyes when he emerged from the shadows in the alley – there was something primal about him, fierce and dangerous. It shouldn’t have been attractive; she shouldn’t have felt her blood heat up just from the brightness of his eyes, his anger deepening that endless summer sky shade. She shouldn’t even want him.

 

But she does.

 

She’s seen him in his element, issuing orders on his ship, sword swinging in the sunlight with a dangerous gleam, easily climbing the ropes. But this was something different, the way power and command just seemed to surround him as he advanced on her, pushed her up against that wall and had his way with her.

 

How even when he was _taking_ , he was still giving – she knows without a shadow of a doubt if she had resisted, he would have stopped. She knows it because of how he was when she was drunk, but she’s also come to recognize he has a code. It’s his code, and it doesn’t always make sense to her, but when he tells her he doesn’t force women – would _never_ force a woman – she believes him.

 

Then there’s that second kiss, the softer one, almost an apology for his roughness, for his jealous outburst. She’s not stupid. She knows full well that first kiss was about him laying claim to her, trying to prove to her that _he’s_ the man in her life now, but that second kiss…that second kiss was a question and an offer – all she has to do is reach out and take it.

 

 _Killian will do_.

 

He’s only told her his name once before, standing at the rail of his ship, deep in thought that first moonlit night that was only weeks ago but feels like another lifetime. She’s just called him Hook, refusing to give him the title of _captain_ since he seems rather full of himself as it is. And he hasn’t corrected her, hasn’t bothered to try to make her see him as anything other than the pirate captain.

 

Until today.

 

No, that second kiss, that soft plea for her to use his given name, that was something other than jealousy. It’s softer, and it molds itself around her, wraps her up in its embrace and whispers things to her, things she shouldn’t want, can’t want.

 

 _Killian_ is far more dangerous to her than Hook.

 

Perhaps she shouldn’t be going to the _Jolly_ tonight. He walked away from her this afternoon happy – he thinks they’re going to pick up where they left off. She hasn’t given him a reason not to think so.

 

A part of her is very tired of fighting against her desire for him, as inappropriate as she finds the idea of wanting him. It doesn’t really matter anymore that she shouldn’t – she does.

 

“Think about something else,” she tells herself sternly, sitting up on the bed and eyeing her nemesis – the candle she can’t light – sitting on the dresser. With a sigh, she crosses her legs and stares at it, concentrates, and wills the damn thing to light.

 

If she squints the right way, she thinks she can see a bit of smoke, just a tiny wisp of it…after about two hours of trying. Scowling at the candle, she checks the time. She’s supposed to meet Hook for ten, but if she takes a shower now (a _cold_ one) and heads over, she’ll only be about thirty minutes early. And she can’t sit in this room anymore, alone with her thoughts and the candle taunting her.

 

“Yeah, because a candle is capable of taunting anyone, Emma.” The fact that she’s talking to herself isn’t a good sign either. She shuffles into the bathroom, eying the shower with a raised brow. She’s already had one shower today, and she really doesn’t need another, but her blood still feels like fire in her veins when she thinks about him.

 

The shower doesn’t help.

 

If anything, it makes it worse. Goosebumps rise over every inch of her skin, and she shivers with the cold. One shiver makes her think of others, of how cold she was on his ship and his warm bed and what it was like beneath a blanket with him.

 

She turns the water off abruptly, standing in the shower dripping and cursing and squeezing her eyes shut and wishing she had better self-control. Her mood turns foul as she dresses in a hurry, barely bothering to brush her hair as she shoves her feet into boots and an old hat over her wet hair. Why is _he_ the one who gets her all wound up? Why couldn’t Graham, lovely, sweet (possibly controlled by the evil queen) Graham make her blood burn through her veins like this?

 

Her early arrival surprises him. She bursts into his cabin to find him reading a book on his bed, shirtless and bootless. He sits up quickly, wincing at the sudden movement, and her eyes travel immediately to his side. “Those stitches need to come out,” she tells him, noticing the knife on the table and picking it up. “Lay back down.”

 

“Good evening to you too, Swan.” He chuckles but does as she says, big blue eyes looking up at her in the candlelight. “I see you’re in a state.”

 

“Hold still.” She works the tip of the knife under the thread carefully, trying to ignore his wince every time she pulls. He does as he’s told, curious eyes watching her face as she gently pushes at the healing skin, checks to make sure it won’t tear open again without the thread to hold it shut. Satisfied, she sets the knife back on the table and takes a seat, nodding expectantly at the other chair.

 

“You could join me here. It’s a bit more comfortable,” he drawls, not hurrying this time to sit up. He makes an inviting picture, his snug pants the only clothing covering him, and even then, they don’t exactly leave much to the imagination.

 

“No.”

 

He raises an eyebrow at her short reply, sitting up and reaching for the shirt hanging on the peg near the bed, shrugging into it. He does up a few of the buttons before losing patience with the entire business, going to join her at the table but not taking his seat. “What’s the matter, Swan?”

 

“I’m fine. Sit. I have to tell you what I found out today about the curse.”

 

He frowns, glancing at the empty chair before focusing his attention back on her. She won’t even look at him, her eyes on the table, her entire body turned away. Her silence couldn’t make it more clear that she doesn’t want to talk about anything other than their plans for the town, but he wasn’t alone in that alley – she kissed him back and he knows it. He’s spent the greater part of the evening recalling it, the softness of her against him, the stroke of her tongue on his and the way her lips parted so easily to him.

 

“Emma.” That gets her attention, tormented emerald eyes meeting his.

 

“I can’t, Hook.” It’s a whisper and a plea, and he can see it all over her, the fear and the distrust, and something else, something harder to place. “Please. Sit. Let’s talk about the curse, okay?”

 

He studies her for another long moment before he takes his seat. It doesn’t escape him that she’s calling him _Hook_ still, that despite his request, she’s keeping him firmly in the pirate box. He deserves that, he supposes, considering his behavior in the alley, his savagery.

 

“Shall I go first?” She nods, and he takes a deep breath. “I’ve been to see Regina. I couldn’t exactly hide the ship in port, so I went to her. I’m not quite sure she doesn’t suspect anything with your Emily ruse, but I don’t believe she’s sorted who you actually are. That boy of hers is sulking about, like he truly failed, and I believe that’s gone a long way in convincing her it’s the truth. She doesn’t believe her boy would lie to her.” He stops, realizing his error and silently cursing himself. “Your boy, Emma.”

 

“It’s okay. She’s raised him, and she’s done at least a few things right.” It’s hard to admit, but Henry seems happy, smart, and well-cared for. Everything else is another matter, but she can’t deny that Regina seems to at least care for her son enough to keep him healthy and happy while she couldn’t.

 

“You’ll get him back.” Hook reaches across the table, takes her hand in his and threading their fingers together. It’s oddly intimate, the night surrounding them, the candles flickering in their lanterns and the gentle bobbing of the ship on the calm waters. The crew is mostly out for the night, sailors on shore leave not so different in any realm, though he’s warned them to be discrete and mind their manners.

 

It’s quiet enough to feel they’re alone.

 

“I know.” Emma squeezes his fingers back, but then slips her hand away. “What else did she say?”

 

“She told me to stay close by, as she’ll resume the search for you. I’m not to go near the crocodile until I’ve completed my task.” The last part comes out bitterly, an angry growl. Hook isn’t exactly playing by Regina’s rules anymore, but for Emma’s sake, he’s got to keep the ruse going until she gains control over her magic and sorts out how to break the curse.

 

“And have you?”

 

“Have I what?”

 

“Stayed away from him?”

 

“I haven’t killed him.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

“It’s none of your concern, Swan.”

 

She leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest, and levels him with her best glare. “You’re still planning to kill him.”

 

He doesn’t answer her. She can’t possibly understand what it is to plan something, to want something, for hundreds of years – to have it so close it’s within his grasp, but not be able to act on it. It’s a bloody ridiculous notion, the fact that he hasn’t done what he’s meant to do yet, and all because of her. Because he’s trying to balance his need for revenge with her happiness, breaking the curse, getting to have a family.

 

Getting to have a happy ending.

 

He scowls at the table, dragging his hook through an old gouge, a result of one fit of temper or another. It’s what this is all about, isn’t it? A happy ending for Emma and her family, but not for him. The closest he’s going to get to happiness is his restored hand and a dead crocodile, and even those seem to be slipping away from him.

 

Is Emma worth giving that all up?

 

It’s the question he’s been asking himself for days as he’s skulked around town, watching, waiting. The crocodile calls himself Mr. Gold these days, has a shop of trinkets in town. He’s been watching him, observing him for any trace of magic, and found none. He’ll keep watching, until he’s certain – he’s made the mistake of underestimating the demon before.

 

“How’s the magic coming along?”

 

She raises her brow at him, and for a moment, he expects an argument. He hasn’t answered her question – isn’t going to – but he’s made that much clear. The topic is now closed for discussion.

 

“It isn’t,” she finally replies, gesturing to the room fully of lit candles. “I’ve got a candle in my room I’ve been trying for days to light, and nothing. I think maybe I got some smoke out of it today.”

 

“I see.” He gets up, moving slowly around the room as he begins to blow out the flames, Emma watching him with increasing alarm and suspicion. He can feel her stare on his back, but he needs a distraction from his dark thoughts, and she needs her magic to work. He’s got a decent idea of how to accomplish both.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Your magic responds well to me. We’re going to try your candle lighting skills again, now there’s a dock to escape to should things go poorly.” He stops what he’s doing, turning back to her with a chiding smirk. “I shall ask you nicely to please not burn my ship down.”

 

“I make no promises.”

 

He shrugs, blowing out the last candle. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness, the moon not yet risen and little light coming through the windows. She can hear the creak of the lantern door shutting, his steps quiet on the boards as he crosses back to her.

 

“Give me your hand, Swan.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Must it always be a battle? Give me your hand. I’m trying to help you.”

 

With a huff, she extends her hand, shivering at his warm touch in the dark room. He tugs, pulling her to her feet and folding his arms around her waist, pulling her against his chest, barely concealed by his meager attempts to button his shirt.

 

“What…”

 

“Shush. Focus on the candles. You want to light them, but you don’t wish to light the rest of the place on fire.”

 

“I’ve tried this before, and…”

 

“Try again.” It’s a whisper in her ear, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin as the words escape, light as a feather. She’s not certain he means to be so close, only Hook never does anything without meaning to, and then he’s kissing her again, soft, barely-there kisses along her jaw and the column of her throat.

 

It’s nearly impossible to think with him doing it, and her hands fist in his shirt as she struggles to think about the stupid candles and their delicate points of light. She stares into the darkness, tries to ignore the feel of him, the warmth of him, the scent of salt and sweat and rum, and just focus on producing even one tiny flame.

 

“It’s not working,” she protests, pulling away from him. The magic isn’t working, not one bit, but his kisses are doing plenty, and she needs him to stop. She’s never going to break the curse if she can’t even light a damn candle, and kissing him like this, in a dark, warm room, well that isn’t going to help lead her down a good path, either.

 

“Close your eyes. Relax.” She feels the slide of metal as the curve of his hook settles into the small of her back, pulling her back in as his hand threads through her still-damp hair, his callused fingers kneading gently at the tense muscle along the back of her neck. “You’re too tightly wound, Swan. Magic can’t be forced.”

 

She forces herself to listen, to release the tension in her shoulders, to lean against him, her fists loosening their tight grip on his shirt. She feels him bending to her before his lips touch hers, has the time to turn her cheek, but doesn’t. Her palms flatten against his chest, not to push him away, but to keep her balance as she leans into him, lets herself get lost in this kiss. It’s sweetness and it’s soft, lacking the desperation and possession of the afternoon but no less enticing as his arm tightens around her waist.

 

It fills her with a soft glow, not so different from that of the candles in their lanterns, bathing the room in a dreamy light.

 

The candles.

 

Emma’s eyes snap open as she pulls back from him with a start. Every single candle in the room is lit, tiny balls of flame dancing on their wicks. Hook…Killian…is staring down at her with wonder in his eyes, a tentative smile on his lips. “You did it,” he says quietly, releasing his grip in her hair to run his fingers over her face, his thumb dragging across her bottom lip.

 

She simply stares, first at him, then at the candles, but then back to him. There’s pride in his eyes, but it’s pride in _her_. He’s not making innuendo-laced comments about her magic responding to him, and he’s not taking credit for anything.

 

That’s what finally makes the decision for her.

 

One of her palms leaves his chest, curling around the curve of his jaw. He seems surprised by the gesture, and the last thing she sees is the brilliance of his awed expression as her eyes slip shut and her lips press into his.

 

This kiss isn’t like the last. It’s needy, and it’s insistent, Emma’s body molding to his and pressing into him as her other arm rises, looping around his shoulders for leverage as her teeth nip at his bottom lip, her tongue stroking his. Her heart is racing, her pulse throbbing throughout her body as his hand begins to wander over her back, under her jacket.

 

She lets him go long enough to shrug out of it impatiently, her hat going to join it in a pile on the floor. She hears the clatter of the knife as he sweeps it off the table, and then they’re moving, and he’s lifting her to sit on the edge of the table, nestled between her legs as the torment of their kisses continue.

 

He breaks away from her mouth, beginning a path down her neck once more, only this time, he doesn’t stop when he encounters her shirt. The devilish grin he’s sporting along with a smoldering promise from the depths of his eyes through sinfully dark lashes is enough to make her shiver in anticipation. He keeps the hook at her back to hold her in place, his hand slowly working open the buttons of her shirt even as his mouth follows.

 

Emma’s eyes slide closed again as the sensations overwhelm her, the softness of his lips and the rasp of his beard on such sensitive skin a heady combination. She can’t let this go much further, not tonight, not with him, not on this ship. There’s still things they need to talk about, and just because she’s got the place lit up like a church at Christmas doesn’t mean her problems with magic are solved. Plus, she hasn’t even begun to tell him what she discovered today with Graham.

 

Graham. The thought of him, the guilt over her actions today, that’s enough to pull her out of her haze of lust. “Killian,” she murmurs, leaning back just enough to break contact with him. “I…”

 

“Say it again,” he interrupts, leaning his forehead against her collarbones, kissing her ever-so-lightly as he breathes against her.

 

“What? I didn’t…”

 

“My name. Say it again.”

 

She can’t help the tiny smile that stretches her lips. She hadn’t meant to, but it had just come out that way, and the wonder and awe in his voice makes it worth it.

 

“Killian,” she whispers, stroking her hand through his hair before tilting his jaw up so she can look into his eyes.

 

“You are wonderful.” He stretches to kiss her again, and she very nearly forgets she’s trying to stop this when his lips touch hers, his arm around her shoulders the only thing keeping her from simply collapsing back on the table and taking him with her.

 

“We have to stop,” she says reluctantly when they break apart for air. He backs away immediately as she sits up, but she reaches for him, keeps him standing close as she redoes the buttons on her shirt. “I still have more to tell you about the curse.”

 

“You could tell me later. In bed.” There’s a spark of hope in his eyes, but she can tell the difference now, when he’s teasing her and doesn’t actually expect her to accept his offer like he is now.

 

“It’s a tempting offer.” She grabs a handful of his shirt, pulling him closer and looking up at him. The candlelight does wonderful things for him, the shadow of his beard and the blue of his eyes, slightly hidden by the sweep of his messy hair. “Another time.”

 

“There will be another time, Swan.” The words are heavy with promise, and he’s staring at her again like he did in the alley, like he’s going to devour her and she’s going to beg him to do it.

 

She swallows past her suddenly tight throat, but she already knows the answer before she says it. “Yes, there will be – but not tonight.”

 

“Aye.” He holds her stare for another long moment, running his thumb over his lip almost absently before he slides into his chair. “Tell me what you’ve learned of the curse, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have gone up a lot faster, but I got distracted writing the beginning of a new AU that hasn't left me alone since someone posted a whole list of AU tropes they love on Tumblr. Sorry y'all! I left this one nice and long to make up for it :)


	18. Chapter 18

“So when I met Graham today for lunch, I asked him a bunch of questions about his past.” Emma pauses, unable to help the tiniest bit of a smirk from escaping. “This was before you accosted me in the alley.”

 

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. “While perhaps my manner was a bit over the line, but I would do it all over again, Swan. I know how you kiss now when you mean it.” The stare he levels at her sizzles the air around them, and she has to swallow thickly to keep her focus on the task at hand.

 

“ _Anyway_ , when I asked him where he grew up, he didn’t know. I asked how long he’s been Sheriff. He didn’t know. So it seems like even though Regina’s curse has taken care of a lot – this place has electricity and internet and all the modern world stuff you could want – she either didn’t think to or wasn’t powerful enough to give them a full set of false memories. Whoever they are, whoever they’ve been here, frozen in time for the last twenty-eight years, that’s all they know.”

 

He doesn’t speak right away, his smoldering invitation turning thoughtful as his mind focuses on something other than the play of the candlelight on her fair skin. “Perhaps if you continue to ask questions, it will trigger their memories the curse has suppressed.”

 

“I thought so, too. I’m just not sure if it will work fast enough to keep Regina from catching on. I mean, Graham and I have been on a bunch of dates. It makes sense for Emily to start asking questions about him, since she’s so interested. But the rest of the town…” Emma trails off, noticing the tightness of his jaw. It’s an odd combination with the sadness in his eyes, and she reaches for his hand, twisting her fingers with his. “Hey, whatever this is with us…I’m not faking, all right? I…don’t know…I don’t know what this is. But whatever you get from me is the real deal.”

 

“That’s good information, Swan, but it’s not that.” He slips his hand out of her grasp, rising from his chair and beginning to pace. His emotions are all over the place tonight, and for a moment, she just watches, taking in the agitation and tension that seems to have sprung up from nowhere.

 

Only it hasn’t quite come from nowhere. She’s mentioned being with another man, and if there’s something she’s learning about Hook, he doesn’t share. It’s foolish of her to even attempt to deny there’s something between them, but she doesn’t know what is yet – she doesn’t know if it’s something real or if it’s a product of their situation, of the way her magic responds to him. Maybe it’s because he’s the only other one around who isn’t cursed. Maybe it’s because she needs to use her magic on him to complete her part of the bargain.

 

Maybe it’s something else entirely, but that’s not a thought she wants to entertain, not yet, not now.

 

“You make me wants things, Emma,” he finally says, his back to her and his eyes gazing out the window to the dark harbor beyond. It’s a clear night, and if she squints, she can just barely make out the stars beyond.

 

“Yeah, I’ve…noticed.” It’s her attempt at a joke, the innuendo-laced comment that’s so much more his style than hers, but she’s shocked when he turns back to face her. His expression is serious, the melancholy in his eyes achingly painful to witness. There’s not a hint of his usual teasing.

 

“You remind me of what is to be more man than pirate. You make me wish for a life where it’s you and I having a meal together, where it’s not a matter of watching from the shadows while you play at it with another. I’ve spent hundreds of years in this life, with this mission, and yet in a few short weeks, you’ve torn my world apart.”

 

She remembers that night at the ship’s rail again, his soft voice, the sadness in his eyes, and it’s not so different tonight. He’s being brutally honest with her, and she can see the fear that he’s said too much, that he’s revealed a piece better left hidden as soon as the words are out.

 

Emma doesn’t know what to say in response, because what she knows isn’t going to help. She knows she’s attracted to this man, that the pull between them is impossible to ignore. She knows it’s getting harder to deny she finds herself missing him beside her alone at night in her room at Granny’s, that she finds herself thinking of him at the oddest moments.

 

She slides out of her chair, crossing the room to join him at the window. “Killian…” His name is a breath of air leaving her lips, her arms winding around his neck as she goes to him, kissing the bare skin where his shirt is open before holding on tight.

 

His arms come around her waist, his cheek leaning against her hair. The silence is heavy with promise, so many things there for the taking if she would just reach out her hand to grab them. “Stay with me,” he murmurs in her ear, so quietly she isn’t sure was meant to hear it, but hear it she does.

 

She pulls back enough to see his face, turning her eyes to his, searching. It isn’t a ploy to simply get her in bed. She can see it in his expression, the longing and the vulnerability, because by the look of him, he didn’t mean for her to hear his plea. His jaw is tight again, a fight against the urge to take the words back, to close himself off to the rejection he fears and send her on her way.

 

But she doesn’t say no.

 

“I can’t be seen leaving,” is what she finally says, and the spark of hope that lights up his entire expression makes her heart ache for him, for whatever it is in his past that makes him so certain putting his heart on the line means watching it burn before his eyes.

 

“I’ll wake you just before dawn.”

 

“With what alarm clock?”

 

He grins, bending to kiss her, a barely-there brush of his lips over hers. “No alarm clock, love. Just a sailor’s routine to wake with the first hint of light. If you’re sure, that is. I…understand if you must return to your room.”

 

“Quite the change from demanding I stay with you when we first arrived in town,” she teases, running one hand over his shoulder, tracing an invisible pattern over his chest, slowly sinking down toward the few buttons actually fastened together.

 

“I seem to have learned my lesson when it comes to ordering you about.” His breath catches as her other hand slides down his chest, her fingers slowly unfastening the buttons of his shirt until it falls open.

 

“I’m not…I’m not staying because we’re going to…I mean, we’re not going to…tonight.” She can feel her cheeks flaming, avoiding his stare as she realizes she’s likely giving him the impression she’s about to offer a lot more than she intends to. “I need some time.”

 

“Emma.” His hand slides into her hair, pressing gently against the back of her head to tilt her face to his. When she finally looks up at him, he’s smiling, but it’s a soft smile of affection and far from the teasing smirk she’s expecting. “Make no mistake, I want you, quite badly. But when I make love to you…” The way he says it, low and brimming with promise, tugs low in her belly, makes her press just a little closer to him as she struggles to keep her breath even. “…it’s going to be because you want me just as badly.”

 

“You did promise me no tricks,” she says softly, her lips inches from his. She runs her palm over his chest, smooth skin to coarse hair back to the smoothness of his shoulder as she reaches her fingers into his hair, strokes the back of his neck and presses closer.

 

“No tricks,” he repeats, but he’s barely paying attention to what he’s saying as the distance closes between them. It starts out soft and sweet, kisses that feel like they could go on and on, but something shifts as Emma pushes the shirt off his shoulders. As it drops to the floor, he’s spinning them against the wall, Emma’s shoulder blades against the thick glass as his hand travels up the back of her shirt, palm spread over the small of her back. She can feel the cool metal of his rings against her heated skin, and it’s becoming increasingly hard to remember all the reasons she told herself she wouldn’t sleep with him tonight.

 

His lips break apart from hers, and she can hear his ragged breath as he uses the hook to push open the neck of her shirt, exposing her shoulder and collarbones to his greedy touch. She should stop him, because it very much feels like he’s working open the buttons of her shirt again, but all she can think about is the feel of his skin on hers, and how very much else there is available to them that isn’t sex.

 

She’s dimly aware of his hand traveling to the buttons of her shirt, the coolness of the hook against her waist as the shirt finally falls open. He hums appreciatively at the sight laid out before him, his fingertip tracing the lace trim of her bra as his eyes flicker back to hers. “The undergarments of this realm are quite…different…” he says slowly, dragging his finger between her breasts to her bare stomach.

 

“Just wait until you see the rest of it,” she tells him, biting back a moan as his tongue works over her breasts, pushing the lace out of the way as he goes.

 

“There’s more?” His hand skims her bare waist, teasingly searching for fabric but finding none.

 

“Sort of.” She laughs quietly, a rush of anticipation she hadn’t expected at the thought of his reaction to the scrap of lace she’s got on beneath her jeans. Pretty underwear have long been an indulgence of hers, and tonight, she’s feeling especially grateful for it.

 

Her laughter doesn’t last long, his kisses becoming more aggressive as his arms come around her, lifting her suddenly to gain better access to her skin. One moment she’s pressed back to the glass again; the next he’s moving across the room, laying her back on the feather mattress and covering her body with his.

 

She hitches her leg around his thigh, anchoring the line of her body to his. The movement shifts her hips just enough to feel him pressing into her, the leather pants doing nothing to disguise his desire for her.

 

It makes him curse when she does it again, tightening her leg around his and pulling him closer, a delicious friction forming between them as his hand travels down her thigh. His eyes slip closed as he rocks against her, cursing again before burying his mouth in her neck, her name on his lips a prayer and plea.

 

They should stop, but Emma can’t seem to find the will to push him away. She can’t remember the last time she was this turned on with most of her clothes still on, and god, if it’s this good now, she can only imagine what it’s going to be like when the clothes come off.

 

Besides, there’s no way either of them are sleeping tonight without some kind of release. Not with the way the tension has been notching higher and higher between them, and today it’s at a breaking point. She’s known it from the moment he pushed her up against the brick in that alley, his jealousy and desire all wrapped up in one frantic kiss she wanted just as badly as he did.

 

“Do it again,” she gasps out, arching her back to press her hips against his. It takes him a second to figure out what she’s asking for, but she can feel his lips curve into a smile before she sees the mischief dancing in his eyes. He watches her as he rocks forward again, the pressure building. She could kill him for it, the teasing way he slows down the movement, leans forward to kiss her but just barely brushing his lips against hers, all the while pressing against her in a torturous motion.

 

Her eyes slide closed as his lips finally descend on hers, his control _finally_ waning as the press of his body against hers grows more erratic. Her breath catches, nails digging into his back as the world explodes behind her eyes.

 

He’s not far behind, his breath slowing from the unsteady gasps as he tugs her into his side. “That was…”

 

“The most fun I’ve had with my clothes on in a long time,” she supplies when he trails off, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at his content smile. She flops back into the pillows after kissing him again, her eyes scanning the room with regret. “One of us has to get up and blow out the candles.”

 

“I think not.” His arm snakes around her waist, keeping her in bed as he turns to her. “Blow them out from here. I’m not letting you out of this bed, Swan.”

 

“I’ve at least got to take my boots off.”

 

“You needn’t get out of bed for that.”

 

“You’re impossible.” She’s smiling as she says it, kicking the boots in question off one by one. They make a dull thud as they hit the floor, and she turns into his chest, breathing in the scent of his sweat and skin, curiously absent of liquor today. She’s growing sleepy in her haze of pleasure and Killian, the feel of his skin on hers intoxicating.

 

“Candles, love. Before you fall asleep.”

 

“Mmm…” she mutters into his chest, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. Last time it wasn’t intentional to light the candles – it was the rise of emotion in her, the closeness of him. This time, she tries to draw on that, to find power in her obvious connection with him.

 

The candles flicker out, one by one.

“Getting easier?” he asks softly, his hand at her waist, thumb stroking gently over the sensitive skin.

 

“Yes,” she replies, nuzzling closer as he pulls the blanket up over them, sealing her into a drowsy haze of warmth and contentment. Her hand slides down his side, over the scabbed gash in his side, and his wince makes up her mind. “Hold still,” she tells him, laying her palm flat against the angry, sore skin.

 

“Swan, don’t over exert yourself. There…oh.” The rush of warmth from her hand into his side is an odd feeling, but the pain fades almost immediately, the constant ache he’s grown used to simply gone. “Now why didn’t you do that days ago?” he teases, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him, wrapped protectively in his arms.

 

“I wasn’t sure I could do it today,” she admits. “I was afraid I would do it wrong and make it worse.” She picks her head up from his chest, stretching to kiss him once more. “We’ll get you back your hand in no time.”

 

He smiles until she settles back against his chest, her blonde hair tickling his skin as she gets comfortable. His happiness, so genuine and fulfilling only moments ago seems to drain out of him as his gaze falls to the hook resting over her, the gleam of the metal still visible in the darkness.

 

His hand has been the last thing on his mind tonight, with Emma warm and willing in his arms. He hadn’t given a thought in the last hour to his hand or the crocodile or his revenge – only to the woman in his arms, the feelings he can’t deny he has for her, the way she responds to him assuring him she feels the same even if she won’t say it.

 

He lays awake for hours, twisting the hook in the pale light of the moon and listening to Emma’s breathing, two sides of one very impossible coin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is early since I'm about to have a house full of dinner guests. This also sadly means I'll be missing tonight's episode until the morning, but you all enjoy the red vest of deliciousness for me, all right?


	19. Chapter 19

He wakes her just before dawn as promised, his hand trailing over her cheek until she blinks her eyes open to find him staring down at her. It takes a colossal effort to drag herself out of the warmth of his bed (his arms) and into the cold dawn. He seems tired when she leaves him, his smile oddly forced, but she chalks it up to their late night. He kisses her before she goes, a lingering kiss that leaves her wanting him more than ever.

 

She feels a little ridiculous skulking through the town, clinging to the shadows and walking quickly, her chin pulled low into her collar against the wind and any early-morning residents. She sees no one, and it’s a relief to close her door behind her at Granny’s.

 

The sun hasn’t risen yet, the glow of the sky promising its impending arrival but still a deep blue in the west. She kicks off her boots, the warm bed inviting as she strips off her jeans and jacket, crawling into the cool sheets to catch a few more hours sleep.

 

She finds herself wishing Killian was with her, the scent of his skin still clinging to hers. If he were here, she would drag him into the shower with her, then back to bed for another round of pleasure – without their clothes. (It’s better he’s not here – she’s not really ready for that, not with him, not with this tangled web of conflicted emotions, but she can’t help the wanting.)

 

Her dreams are filled with him, the touch of his fingers, the slide of his skin against hers, the sweep of his tongue over her skin. She barely remembers most of it when she wakes, sweating and wound tight, the ghost of his hands on her skin making her flesh tingle, because she can recall that detail very well – in the dream, he had two hands and he definitely knew what to do with them.

 

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes and blinking in the sunshine, Emma sits up, leaning against the headboard and trying to slow her racing heart. The rest of the dream aside, Killian having two hands is a good sign, right? That’s what she should be focusing on, not the way those two hands could play her body like a fiddle.

 

She’s finally feeling like she’s making progress. The candles last night were a good test, but the fact that she could heal him makes her even more confident. She smiles to herself, remembering, and spots the candle still sitting on the dresser. Her thoughts are still filled with Killian’s proud smile as she narrows her eyes at the candle, willing it to light.

 

The flame flickers to life almost immediately.

 

She can’t help letting out a small whoop of delight, this tiny flame proof that her magic works even when Killian isn’t standing beside her. He may be the one who’s pushed her abilities forward, but she’s still the one in control of it.

 

It’s with a fair amount of regret she finally gets into the shower, the hot water washing away any trace of him from her skin. She finds herself wondering what will happen when the curse is finally broken, when he has his hand back. What would it be like to wake each morning, the scent of him fresh on her skin?

 

She frowns at the thought, remembering his vow to exact his revenge. It’s hard to reconcile the idea of him actually being capable of a murderous deed against how he was last night, eyes filled with hope, telling her she makes him question everything. She’s trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, that when he says he wishes to kill Mr. Gold, he’s speaking in metaphor. She could understand that – she’s thought murderous thoughts plenty of times.

 

But she would never go through with it – will he?

 

And if he does, how can she be involved with him like she is? No matter how drawn she is to him, she can’t be with a murderer. Even if he is gentle with her, and kind, and cares for her, what sort of person would _she_ be if she knowingly let him kill someone? And what sort of example would that set for her son? She’s new to this parenting business, but she’s pretty sure that one is frowned upon universally.

 

Her thoughts are still dark when she goes to meet Henry at Granny’s. They arranged it after he got out of school a few days ago. Regina has a meeting – she told Henry to go to Granny’s to do his homework, and she would pick him up around five. Henry gets out of school at three, so they have at least an hour to talk.

 

He’s already sitting in a booth with the storybook when she arrives, sliding across the worn leather and smiling in greeting. “Hey, kid.”

 

“Hey. I got you hot chocolate. Ruby’s bringing it over. Did you want to share some French fries? I’m not supposed to eat them, but I’m tired of apples.” Henry makes a face at his bag, and Emma can’t help but laugh. She’s never been good at eating healthy things either.

 

“Sure. I haven’t had lunch yet. Get whatever you want.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Ruby comes back with her drink, takes their order and disappears again, undoubtedly after the tow truck driver Emma has noticed hanging around. She frowns, her morning’s worries returning all over again. Is she just like Ruby, foolishly getting involved with a man who isn’t good for her?

 

“You okay, Mom?”

 

Emma shakes herself out of it, turning her attention back to Henry. “Yeah, I’m fine, kid. So what did you want to tell me?”

 

“I think I figured out who your dad is,” he says, lowering his voice and looking around the diner like there are spies everywhere. “We went on a trip to the hospital for school, and I saw this guy in a coma. Mary Margaret takes care of him, and she really likes him. I think he’s Prince Charming.”

 

“How do you know that, if he’s in a coma?”

 

“She looks at him funny. Like how Hook looks at you when you’re not paying attention. I saw him, you know. In town. I think he’s keeping an eye on you when you’re with the Sherriff. He’s friends with my mom, my other mom. She doesn’t know I know.”

 

Emma listens to him ramble with a child’s enthusiasm, his words running into each other, but it’s a lot of information. He’s putting Hook in the same category as her parents, a couple who is supposed to represent True Love. Capital T, Capital L. That’s plenty unsettling, but there’s also confirmation that something more is going on with Graham and Regina than appearances would allow, which means Hook’s suspicions might be right.

 

But she doesn’t really want to talk about Hook with Henry, especially not with the memory of what they did together last night still fresh enough to make her cheeks pink.

 

“So how are we going to get him out of a coma?” she asks, ignoring the rest of Henry’s information to focus on the one problem they can – maybe – solve. “I don’t think I have that kind of magic.”

 

“No, but Mary Margaret might.”

 

“I thought you said no one in town has magic.”

 

“They don’t. But there’s always True Love’s Kiss. You don’t need magic for that.” Henry flips the pages of the book before pushing it across the table. It’s turned to Snow White and Prince Charming’s story, an illustration of Snow White in her glass casket taking up the opposite page. “It’s how he woke her up from the sleeping curse. We just have to get her to try to wake him up.”

 

“Henry, I don’t know. She doesn’t know him. If we just ask her to kiss a stranger in a coma…” Emma’s brows draw together in a frown, tracing the illustration carefully with her finger. “How do we even know it will work?”

 

“True Love’s Kiss is powerful enough to beat any curse or spell. It’s the most powerful magic there is.” Henry slurps up some of his hot chocolate, pointing at the book. “It’s all in there.”

 

“You think if he wakes up the curse will be broken?”

 

“Maybe. But even if it doesn’t break the curse, they’ll be together. It’s a step closer.”

 

Emma sighs, grateful for Ruby’s arrival with a plate of fries to give her a moment to think. She has no idea how she’s going to get Mary Margaret to agree to this, but Henry seems so certain and the kid hasn’t been wrong yet.

 

Which leaves his comment about how Hook looks at her a puzzle to examine at length when she’s alone.

 

“It’s too bad you can’t do it,” Henry breaks into her thoughts, munching on the fries after drowning them in ketchup. “You’re their daughter. It’s like True Love, magnified. But you never knew him so you can’t love him.”

 

“No, probably not.”

 

“Did you love my dad?”

 

The question catches her off-guard, and Emma reaches for her drink to cover up the fact that she’s too shocked to say anything right away. When she finally manages to compose herself, she sighs. “Henry, your father…” She trails off, still unsure. Finally, she decides to be as honest as she can be. “I loved your father, yes. But it was a long time ago.”

 

His expression turns thoughtful, and Emma watches as he drags the same French fry through his pile of ketchup without eating it. “Do you know where he is?”

 

Her heart aches at the question. She remembers what it was like to be young and wonder about her parents, why they gave her up, who they turned into, what happened to them. Henry’s life has been different from hers, but of course he still wonders. The trouble is, she can’t tell him the truth – she has no idea where Neal is, because Neal left her to rot in a jail cell and she hasn’t heard from him since.

 

But Henry is looking at her with wide, hopeful eyes, and she just can’t tell him that his father is a criminal and betrayed her – she can’t tell a kid his father broke her heart so badly she’s not sure she’ll be able to love again, ever. “I’m so sorry, Henry, but he died. He was a firefighter. He died saving people.”

 

“Oh.” He seems disappointed by the answer, and Emma struggles not to wince at the lie, however kindly meant. But his next question floors her. “What about Hook?”

 

“What about him?”

 

“Do you love him?”

 

“Henry!” Emma scowls, grabbing a handful of fries and brandishing them at him before answering. “What sort of question is that? I barely know him.”

 

“I think he loves you.”

 

“I think you have a very active imagination,” Emma replies, shaking her head and gesturing to the book. “My life isn’t like this book, Henry. I didn’t grow up there. There isn’t a fairytale prince waiting for me.”

 

“Duh. Hook’s a pirate.”

 

“Henry.” Emma’s tone grows sharper, a hint of warning in his name. “Seriously, kid, I know you mean well, but whatever is or isn’t between me and Hook, it isn’t love. He’s helping us, and I’m helping him. That’s it.”

 

Henry looks back at her, face full of doubt, and Emma can feel a blush creeping into her cheeks. What she’s telling him isn’t entirely the truth. There’s a bit more than _helping_ going on these days when it comes to the pirate captain, but she can’t possibly explain to him how she feels about any of that.

 

She can’t explain to _herself_ how she feels about any of that.

 

“So how are we going to get Mary Margaret to kiss coma guy?” Henry finally asks, and Emma is grateful he’s let the subject of her and Hook drop, because she’s a terrible liar and she’s pretty sure her son knows it.

 

They come up with their plan, and Emma isn’t really sure it’s entirely going to work, but she’s got to try something. Wandering around town pestering Graham isn’t going to get her much further if she isn’t willing to take a chance, and Henry’s idea is as good as any.

 

She heads back up to her room by four-thirty, leaving plenty of room between Regina’s expected arrival time and her appearance. She could explain it away easily enough – she’s staying at Granny’s and figured she’s say hello to the kid when she went down for lunch – but it’s not worth drawing attention to it if she doesn’t have to.

 

She’s not sure what to do with herself tonight. The sky has gradually been clouding over as the day has gone on, a late autumn storm in the forecast. It’s supposed to rain tonight, and she’s not sure she can risk going back to the _Jolly Roger_ again even without the promise of a very damp walk. She hasn’t heard from Graham either, which is a bit strange, but given the state she left him in, perhaps he just wants to be alone.

 

Flopping back on the bed, she picks up the book she found in her car and listens to the rain start while she reads. She’s so engrossed in her book that the creak of the door opening nearly gives her a heart attack.

 

“What are you _doing_?” she hisses when she sees him, dripping rainwater all over the floor as he shuts the door behind him, getting to her feet. “You can’t be here. You’re going to….”

 

He cuts her off with a kiss, the soaked leather instantly drenching her sweater as he hauls her against him with an intensity she doesn’t understand, but responds to well enough. Her fingers find purchase in his dripping hair, and she’s nearly forgotten how cold and sodden he is by the time they break apart.

 

But he doesn’t release her entirely, his hook at her back and his palm on her cheek. It’s only when they separate she sees the wild look in his eyes, fear and anguish that are tinged with relief.

 

“Killian?” she asks, concern drawing her brows together as she gently smooths her thumb over his cheek, rain clinging to his eyelashes. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

 

“Swan, I must tell you something, though first, I am rather relieved to find you here in one piece.” He smiles, a weak smile, but the kiss he gives her is anything but, his mouth plenty warm though the rest of his skin is cool from walking in the rain.

 

“Well, take off the coat at least,” she tells him when they break apart, holding her hand out for the sodden leather. “I can hang it up over the shower to dry.”

 

He raises an eyebrow at the mention of the shower, shrugging out of his heavy coat. “Should you wish to give me a lesson in this shower, I’m not quite sure I’ve achieved a full understanding of its mystery with the one experience.”

 

“Uh huh.” She takes the coat, surprised at its weight and eyes him critically. “What else is wet? It’s pouring out there. I can hang up the shirt and vest too, if you want.”

 

“Anxious to get me out of my clothes, Swan?”

 

“I don’t want you to get sick.”

 

He chuckles, following her into the bathroom while struggling with the buttons on his vest. It only takes her a moment of watching to take over the task for him, shooting him a look to silence his protest that he’s got the matter handled. She carefully hangs the vest over the shower rod, then his shirt.

 

Leaving him standing there in his pants and boots, water dripping from his hair down his chest. It’s enough to almost make her forget he broke into her room nearly in a panic, but she’s all but certain the haunted look in his eyes will stay with her for a long time.

 

“Emma, I’m afraid I have some alarming news. It concerns the Sherriff.”

 

“You didn’t get into a fight with him, did you?” The seriousness of his gaze shuts her up promptly. She falls silent, reaching for a dry towel and offering it to him.

 

He takes it, slowly rubbing his damp hair with his eyes on his boots. Finally, he looks up at her, and she sees it again, the fear and the deep hurt lurking in his eyes. “You’ll recall the Dark One killed Milah before my eyes by tearing out her heart and crushing it.” He stops, his eyes sliding shut in an old agony for a split second before he resumes his tale. “It made an impression. I witnessed something today…Graham is dead, Emma. Regina crushed his heart.”

“What?” It’s barely a whisper, shock flooding through her. Graham is dead? But she just saw him yesterday. How could he possibly be dead? “How…?”

 

“I followed him today, curious as to what would come of your questions. He went to Regina, foolish lad. His dreams last night were filled with his old life – your questions did indeed trigger his memories. The trouble is, he told her. And she killed him for it.” Killian reaches for her, a tentative hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, love.”

 

She stares up at him in shock, unable to process any of it. She wants to think it’s a (very) cruel joke, but Killian’s eyes are filled with his own private hell. He’s not making an awful joke about eliminating his perceived competition. His frantic arrival suddenly falls into place – he was _worried_ about her.

 

He thinks Regina is going to try to kill her.

 

She doesn’t realize she’s shaking until he pulls her closer, holds her against his chest and runs his fingers through her hair. “I know I shouldn’t have come, Swan, but I had to…”

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers into his chest, her arms winding around his waist as she breathes in the scent of him, feels his skin slowly warm under her touch. “Can you…can you stay?”

 

“Leaving wasn’t ever an option, love. Not tonight.” His arm around her waist tightens, and she doesn’t care that she’s standing in the bathroom with him, or that he’s still dripping all over the floor, or that he shouldn’t be here.

 

She doesn’t care that she feels more for him than she wants to admit, that he’s wormed his way into her heart and taken up residence. She doesn’t want to admit that the terrified look in his eyes when he burst in chilled her to the bone, but at the same time, it cemented the knowledge that she is _important_ to him. He came here tonight because he was _afraid_ for her, and that kiss when he saw she was all right, that was _relief_ of a profound sort.

 

It was maybe a little bit of something else too, but she isn’t ready to think about that, Henry’s questions echoing in her thoughts as she presses her cheek to Killian’s skin and listens to the even rhythm of his still-beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to say this when we're just getting to the good part, but updates may be a bit slower from here on out. I'm taking a condensed class for spring semester (hence why it's only getting going now) so that's going to take up a lot of time. Oh, grad school, you devil. 
> 
> See y'all soon!


	20. Chapter 20

It takes her a long time to pull back from him, and she still feels shaky. His grip on her slackens, but he doesn’t release her entirely, his hand still on her waist. “Are you all right, love?”

 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want him to see the emotion she knows has taken up residence in her expression. Because all of his worry for her, it makes _her_ worry for _him_. If Regina killed Graham for asking questions about his past, what is she going to do to Killian for lying and betraying her?

 

She feels the slide of his palm along her jaw, his thumb gently pressing her chin up until she’s nearly forced to look at him, concern pooling in his endless eyes. “I’m worried for you,” she finally whispers, her lashes fluttering shut, because the intensity of whatever is going on between them in overwhelming, and she just needs a beat.

 

“Rest assured, I excel at surviving. Many a foe has attempted to do me in. None have succeeded.”

 

“Not helping.”

 

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest as he tugs her close once more. Her clothes are damp from being pressed to him, but she barely notices. “I’ll be fine, love. I have a reason to survive.”

 

“Your revenge?” She doesn’t know why she says it, why she pushes at the sore spot, unable to stop worrying an open wound. But it’s too late to take the words back, and when he remains silent, she’s too curious to keep her eyes on the floor.

 

He’s thoughtful, and when their eyes meet, he scans her face, his hand threading into her hair before he answers. “No,” he finally says, very quiet. “Not that.”

 

“But then what…” She stops, because he’s _staring_ at her, intense and searching, and suddenly, it’s very warm in the small bathroom. She should back away now, should go back into the other room and leave him in here with a few towels to dry himself out the best he can, but she’s frozen under that look, penetrating as it is.

 

“I have lived with a thirst for revenge for what the crocodile took from me for hundreds of years. But tonight, once again helpless to stop death before my very eyes, I wasn’t thinking of Milah and the crocodile. I was consumed only by thoughts of you, Swan. Should you find a manner to return to my hand to me, I should be far more interested in using it to defend you, to ensure your safety, than I am in ending his life.”

 

It’s overwhelming , the words, the look in his eyes, the openness and vulnerability of his crushing honesty as he confesses what is an enormous shift in priorities. Emma doesn’t understand his grief, his anguish, his need for revenge – but she knows what it is to _hurt_. It’s no small thing, what he’s saying to her. He’s been so certain for so long his revenge was the cure for all that ails him, but now…now he’s saying it’s something else completely.

 

She just doesn’t know what to say back, because he’s good at words, at telling her what he’s thinking. This isn’t the first time he’s been honest like this, spilled his soul to her, but she doesn’t know how to do it, how to explain to him the rising tide of emotion he seems to call forward. So she tugs on the pendant around his neck, bringing his lips to hers while her fingers tangle in his damp hair.

 

They’re both breathing heavily when they break apart, and he reaches forward, tucking her hair back behind her ear with a tenderness she doesn’t expect. “It’s been quite a long day. Are you tired, love?” There’s no innuendo in the question, and for some reason, the seriousness of his question, his concern, it makes her just a little bit sad, like somehow, a piece of him is missing. It only adds to the grief of knowing Graham is dead, a thought that is so hard to believe she keeps momentarily forgetting, only to remember all over again with a fresh wave of sorrow.

 

“I am. Are you…those pants are soaked. Are you sure you’re okay sleeping like that?” She hesitates asking the question, unsure of what door she’s opening.

 

“Haven’t got another choice, Swan. Unless you’re offering an evening without pants?” His hand slides down her side, settling on her hip, and she sees it then, the twinkle of mischief in his eyes. It’s oddly welcome, this part of him that she’s come to know and expect.

 

She chuckles, her hands on his chest. The offer is tempting, but things are shifting between them, and it’s not a simple matter of a good screw anymore. She can’t just sleep with him and walk away; sex is going to change things even more between them, and she knows it.

 

And she’s not ready for it.

 

“I have a pair of pants I sleep in sometimes that are like three sizes too big for me. They might be a little short on you but they’re dry,” she offers, not entirely sure the idea will work. But she hates for him to be uncomfortable – and she doesn’t want to sleep in a damp bed, either.

 

“You would like me in your trousers, Swan?”

 

“Keep it up. You can sleep on the floor.” She grins up at him, taking a step back and toward the room. “Let me grab them and you can change in here.”

 

“If you insist, love.” She shoots him a dirty look, but returns quickly with the pants, worn as they are. She’s washed them so many times the material is soft as butter. “Here,” she says, holding them out. “If they don’t work…maybe we can sneak back to your ship.”

 

“It’s still raining.”

 

“I know. But I’m sure you’ve got something dry I could wear.” She offers him a saucy smirk, heading for the door, but his hand catches hers. She expects another comment, or a kiss, but instead, he hesitates before asking his question.

 

“Might I…might I take advantage of your shower, Swan?”

 

“Oh, so you like showers now?” She can’t help but tease, one eyebrow raised.

 

“I should like them a great deal more with you joining me, but we will have to leave that for another time.” Her blood feels molten under the power of his stare, and she forces herself to turn to the shower, pulling down the clothes she hung over the curtain rod as an excuse not to look at him.

 

Shower sex _does_ sound like a nice way to pass the evening, to maybe just lose herself in him and not think about Graham or Regina or what may come next.

 

“I’m just going to…go,” she mumbles, setting the wet clothes down on the counter and heading for the door. His laugh follows her out, but she’s fighting a smile of her own as she closes the door to the bathroom.

 

The pants fit him (barely) well enough that he declares them acceptable and crawls into bed with her. Emma sighs with the pleasure of it, his arm curled tightly around her, his chest to her back. He’s warm from the shower, and thanks to the supply of soap from Granny, smells decidedly less feminine after this shower than the one in her apartment. He kisses her shoulder, and she presses back into him, feeling a security in his arms she can’t remember knowing before.

 

And in spite of it – her worry for Henry, her worry for the town, and the gut-wrenching horror of Graham being dead – she falls asleep in his arms and sleeps deeply.

 

She wakes when she feels him moving, blinking in the pale predawn light. “Go back to sleep, love,” he murmurs in her ear, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he slips out of bed. “I’ve got to be getting back. Come to the ship tonight.”

 

“Okay,” she mutters sleepily, her hand catching his right before he gets out of bed and pulling him back for a lingering, half-asleep kiss.

 

The next time she wakes, the full horror of Graham’s death slams into her. Without the distraction of Killian’s warm body beside hers, panic and fear and _anger_ well up, threatening to overwhelm her.

 

Her every instinct is screaming to confront Regina. She _killed_ him. Emma’s been chasing down criminals for a good long while now – it goes against every fiber of her being to not act on this.

 

The trouble is, in Storybrooke, the rules of the real world don’t quite seem to apply.

 

She goes to the hospital once she’s had her coffee, curious about the patient Henry told her about, the one who he thinks is her father. Will she be able to tell if that’s the case? Will she feel some sort of connection to him, like she does with Mary Margaret? Maybe if she talks to him, or can get close enough to him…

 

She doesn’t get that far.

 

“Emily. Still in town I see?” Regina is lurking in the hallway outside John Doe’s room. She has a look about her like she’s been waiting for someone, and it makes Emma’s blood run cold to realize she’s likely walked into a trap.

 

Just how much does Regina know?

 

“Yeah. I met a guy,” she says, forcing her voice to remain level. She’s not supposed to know Graham is dead, after all.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Swan. I wasn’t aware no one had told you. Graham passed away last night. It was very unexpected. Heart attack.” Regina has all the sincerity of block of ice, her attempt at sympathetic smile landing somewhere in the serial killer range.

 

“What?” Emma puts all the surprise she can behind the word. It’s not hard to let her eyes fill with tears, because in spite of the true nature of her interest, she _liked_ Graham. She spent enough time with him to determine he was a good person, regardless of whatever he got wrapped up in with Regina. And the fact that he’s dead now is tragic.

 

Regina’s eyes narrow, and Emma becomes aware of the silence of the hall they’re in, the utter lack of other people around. It’s unusual for a hospital, and the menace in Regina’s eyes doesn’t help.

 

And that’s the moment in which Emma realizes her mistake.

 

“You idiot girl. All this time, _you’ve_ been the one to feed him these ideas. His blood is on _your_ hands, Miss Swan. And the pirate captain, hmm? He’s many things, that Captain Hook, but he’s hardly a simpleton. Just what is it the two of you thought you might be able to pull over on me?” Regina’s advanced on Emma as she’s spoken, until the two women are nearly nose to nose. “You should know, when I’m through with you, I intend to deal with him next.”

 

Regina’s hand plunges into Emma’s chest without warning, and Emma braces for the pain, braces for what she knows is Regina’s attempt to remove her heart, but nothing happens. There’s a curious feeling of power, a rush of energy centered in her chest, and then Regina is pushed back with a wave of light so hard she stumbles into the wall, clutching her hand.

 

“What the hell are you?” she demands, and for the first time, Emma sees the trace of fear in her eyes.

 

“Emma Swan.” She doesn’t mean to say it, but the words come without warning, filled with a bravery she doesn’t feel. She wants to say more – to tell this woman that Henry knows, that Henry has helped, but she doesn’t want to put him in danger. The woman killed the Sheriff; she doesn’t want to chance that Henry could get hurt.

 

“What did you promise him in exchange, Miss Swan? Since I know you couldn’t possibly have matched my offer.” Regina sneers from her spot crumpled against the wall, holding her hand protectively to her chest. “Did you simply spread your legs?”

 

Emma knows she shouldn’t, but she just can’t help herself. Punching Regina is satisfying beyond measure – the fact that it knocks her out cold is a nice addition. It gives her time to get away, but more importantly, time to warn Killian.

 

The shock wears off as she hurries toward the harbor, one hand pressed to her chest. She doesn’t know how or why Regina’s attempt at stealing her heart didn’t work, but she knows if it had, she would be dead right now. Shock gives way to panic as she barrels through the streets of Storybrooke, desperate to find Killian.

 

She tells herself she needs to tell him what’s happened, that they’ve been discovered, but the closer she gets, the more she realizes the simple truth – she’s going to Killian most of all because as fear and worry and sorrow dig their claws in, he’s the one she wants – _needs_ – by her side. 

 

He’s on deck when she comes running down the dock, her lungs screaming for air. It’s a long run, but it didn’t even occur to her to get in the car. Storybrooke isn’t that big, after all. She can tell the moment he notices her, his spine straightening and hand going to his sword.

 

He’s got it drawn, hanging at his side when she tumbles onto the deck, falling heavily against him. “Emma?” Her name is a question, one filled with concern as his arm tightens around her, the curve of the hook on her back. “What’s the matter?”

 

“She…tried…to…kill…me…” She gasps out, clinging to the lapels of his coat. Her heart is racing, from the run, from the reality of saying the words out loud. “Regina. I went to…she tried…”

 

She presses her face to his chest, struggling to catch her breath. He barks out orders she’s barely aware of, then he’s pulling her with him to his cabin, The sword drops with a clatter as soon as the door is closed behind them, his hand running over her body, searching for damage.

 

“What happened?” he demands, voice strangled with emotion. “Are you all right, Swan?”

 

“I’m okay.” Her heart is still hammering away in her chest, but she’s getting her breath back. It’s warm in the cabin after the exertion, and struggles out of her coat, dropping it on the back of a chair before beginning to pace. “What are we going to do?”

 

“First, you are going to explain to me what you mean by she tried to kill you.” There’s an undercurrent of anger in the words, simmering and dangerous, and Emma isn’t surprised to see the tension in his jaw when she looks up.

 

“She tried to pull out my heart.”

 

He pales, and she can see his throat bob as he swallows thickly. “What do you mean, tried?”

 

“It didn’t work. There was a flash of light, and it shoved her back.” Emma rubs absently at her chest, searching his face for a clue as to what could have saved her. “She seemed surprised.”

 

“Aye, I imagine so. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” His brow furrows, and he bends to retrieve his dropped sword, sliding it back into its place on his belt. “Though I’m bloody well glad it happened.” He sighs, rubbing his hand over face. “I must ask you to do something, Swan, though I fear you won’t much like it.”

 

She frowns as he approaches, more serious than she’s ever seen him. “I’m not sure I like it already.”

 

“I need you to remove my heart.” He stops her, one finger to her lips to silence her protest. “And then I need you to take it, and hide it somewhere. Somewhere even I won’t know where it is. The evil queen has many magics, and I don’t wish to be forced to reveal its hiding spot.”

 

“But…how can you survive without a heart?”

 

“Magic, love. It’s a part of me, though I have no ability to wield it.”

 

“But…isn’t…how can you…”

 

“It’s all right, Emma. I’ll be safe s’long as my heart is hidden.”

 

“Will you be…you?” she whispers after a long pause, her fingers twisting into his shirt as she draws closer, breathes him in.

 

“Aye.” He kisses her hair, loops his arms around her waist and holds her in the quiet cabin. It’s something to be savored, the joy of having her in his arms, the worry for her safety, the crush of emotion she brings out in him – all of it will be dulled soon, and there’s no telling how long it will be before the danger is over.

 

“You’re not telling me something.”

 

He sighs, running his fingers through her hair, the silky strands flowing like water over his skin. He should have known better than to attempt to leave a part of the story out, but she isn’t going to like it. “Without my heart, I am still the man you know, Swan, but things are…duller. Joy is not quite joyful; happiness is not quite happy. Sorrow doesn’t carry the same burden.”

 

“So you don’t feel.”

 

“Not as deeply, no.” He pushes her away gently, just far enough that he can see her eyes, see the fear she’s trying so hard to hide. “What I feel for you, love, it does not simply disappear. It won’t be as intense as it is now, but it doesn’t – it _can’t_ – simply vanish.”

 

“Do I have to do this now?”

 

“The sooner the better.”

 

He’s caught off guard by the suddenness of her kiss, the intensity of her lips pressing insistently against his. He stumbles back a few steps before catching his balance, pulling her flush with him and losing himself in the sensations and emotions.

 

She doesn’t need to say it. He understands what this is, though he would never put a label on it, and he’s grateful, because this kiss, the memory of the rush of emotions, it’s going to get him through this. The silk of her hair, the warmth of her breath and lips, the mold of her body to his, he luxuriates in it.

 

When they finally break apart, she’s struggling to keep herself together. He smiles, pushing her hair off her face. “C’mon now, Swan. Best be getting it over with.”

 

She nods, willing herself to be fast, to spare him as much pain as possible. With a deep breath, her hand darts out and plunges into his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The jig is up and the fight is on...


	21. Chapter 21

It’s impossible not to wince at the gasp he lets out, his jaw tight and his hand curled into a fist at his side as she draws his heart out of his chest. It’s astonishing, holding it in her hand, watching it glow dully with the rhythm of his body.

 

He sighs with relief once she’s taken it, watching her with a fair amount of anxiety as she carefully holds it in the palm of her hand. His fingers absently rub against the place where the heart should reside, and Emma steps closer.

 

“Did I hurt you?”

 

His smile is faint, the spark she’s used to missing. “No, love. It’s but a reflex. Now, take it somewhere safe. Be careful.” He brushes a kiss against her cheek before stepping back, and Emma knows she should go, knows she needs to do this before Regina comes looking for them, but she’s frozen in place.

 

She’s not one for tearful goodbyes, and this isn’t even goodbye. She’s going to see him again – they are going to get beyond this. But it’s desperately hard to walk away from him, especially now, when his eyes are dull and his smile doesn’t seem quite right.

 

Careful to cradle his heart between them, she presses forward, drawing him in. She just needs to kiss him one more time before she walks away, but as his lips move over hers, she knows she’s just making it worse.

 

Kissing Killian has been many things, even since before she’s allowed herself to want it. He’s passionate, his lips owning hers and his entire body demanding her attention as he devours her. And she loves that about him, that he kisses her with everything he’s got, but today, now, with his heart in her hand, something’s _missing_. His lips move over hers, and his hand curls at her hip, but there’s something not quite right about the way his body feels pressed to hers.

 

Even the sadness in his eyes as she pulls away doesn’t run as deep, and she should be happy that he’s been spared some pain, but she it feels too much like she’s looking at a ghost of the man she knows.

 

“Go,” he says softly, releasing her and staring out the window rather than at her. “Somewhere safe. Be careful.”

 

Tears are burning behind her eyes as she flees, and she barely knows why.

 

She escapes the docks without seeing Regina, her mind frantic. Where is she supposed to hide something as precious as Killian’s heart? Her room is too obvious; her car is too obvious. She considers giving to Henry, that Regina would never think to look under her nose in her own house, but it’s too much of a risk.

 

The perfect solution presents itself when she nearly barrels into Mary Margaret walking down the street. “Emily!” She reaches out to grab Emma’s arm, steadying her as she comes to an abrupt halt. Concern sweeps over her features as she takes a quick inventory of Emma’s red, panicked eyes and tangled hair. “Are you all right?”

 

“Your apartment is right around here, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Could we go there? Talk privately?” Emma’s struggling to catch her breath again. It feels like that’s all she’s done this morning, running one way and then another. Killian’s heart rests heavily in her hand, concealed in her pocket to keep it out of sight, but it’s a struggle to remember not to grip it. She wants to hold it tightly, ensure she doesn’t lose it or drop it, but she remembers the pain in his eyes the last time she held too tightly.

 

She can’t hurt him. Not now.

 

( _She couldn’t hurt him that first day, not really, but she’s not willing to admit that yet.)_

 

Mary Margaret leads her up the stairs to her door, revealing a small but comfortable loft. It’s cozy, all exposed brick and worn furniture, and Emma takes a deep breath as the door closes behind them. She doesn’t even know where to start, but she’s made a decision, and she’s sticking to it.

 

She only hopes that some sort of maternal instinct will flare itself to life in these moments, because she’s taking a pretty big risk.

 

So takes a deep breath and launches into it before Mary Margaret can even take off her coat. “My name isn’t Emily. It’s Emma. Emma Swan. Henry…the mayor’s son…he’s actually my son. I gave him up, because I was only eighteen and I was scared.” The words are coming faster now, the tears once again rising in her throat, but she swallows hard, shoves them down. “I cam here because Killian found me in Boston, and then Henry found me in Boston, and this is all so insane, but you’re cursed. This whole town is cursed. And…Henry thinks you’re my mom.”

 

Mary Margaret’s expression has ranged from sympathetic to thoughtful, but she blanches at the last bit, alarmed. “Emily…Emma…that’s…we’re the same age!”

 

“I know. It’s crazy, right? I thought so too. But then Hook…Killian…he made me believe.” Emma holds out her hand with his heart, strangely relieved to see the steady, throbbing glow. “This is his heart. And I need to hide it, because Regina is looking for us, and she’s going to try to kill us. She killed Graham.”

 

“Graham had a heart attack. I was at the hospital last night when they brought him in. It was awful.” Mary Margaret’s eyes flood with tears, pain flickering over her features as she stares at Emma.

 

“I know, it seemed that way. That’s what she wanted everyone to think. But she took his heart and she crushed it and he died.” Emma holds out Killian’s heart, the pads of her fingers resting lightly on it to keep it in her hand. She’s struggling to keep her voice from shaking, to keep herself from letting the pain sneak in, because it’s going to level her if she lets it. “This is Killian’s heart. I _need_ to keep it safe. Can I please hide it here?”

 

Mary Margaret stares at her for a long moment, and Emma can see the wheels turning. She’s trying to decide if Emma is completely insane, but Emma can see it, the hesitant, gut reaction that something isn’t quite right with this town, with her life.

 

“Please,” Emma whispers, unable to stop herself. She doesn’t beg – she’s never been the sort of woman to beg. But she’s nearly ready to do it now, because she can’t lose Killian, not now when she’s only starting to admit her feelings for him, not when he’s the thing keeping her together. She can’t lose her chance at family, at Henry and Mary Margaret, and maybe even her father if that’s the man lying in the hospital bed.

 

“There’s a loose brick in the wall I use sometimes to hide money. I think it will fit.”

 

“Thank you!” Emma follows gratefully, pulling her sweater free to strip out of the tank layered beneath. It barely occurs to her she’s stripped her clothes off in front of a woman who she doesn’t really know, but then she’s carefully wrapping his heart in her shirt and pulling her sweater back on. It’s a great relief to slide the brick back into place, to secure his heart in the wall and no longer be holding it in her hands.

 

It also feels a bit like loss.

 

“Okay, we have to go now.” Emma pulls the sleeves of her sweater into place, fussing with it before turning toward the door. She’s on a mission tonight – one foot in front of the other. She can’t afford to slow down or stop – this has to end. She has to get Killian’s heart back in his chest, and she has to keep her son safe.

 

“We?”

 

“Yes. I need you to come with me. And it’s going to sound insane, but I need you to kiss the coma patient.”

 

“That’s assault.”

 

“It’s not. He’s…I think he’s your husband. My father. And we need to wake him up.” Emma feels stupid even saying it, but there’s so much about this world that doesn’t feel real to her – she just plows ahead anyway. Sometimes she wonders when she’s going to wake up in her bed in Boston, look around, and realize it’s all been one very confusing dream.

 

“Dr. Whale…”

 

“Is cursed. All of you are. I know it’s pretty hard to believe, but Henry has this idea, and I think it’s going to work. It _has_ to work.” Emma takes a deep breath, her hands on Mary Margaret’s shoulders. “Just go with me on this, okay?”

 

“I’m not sure…”

 

“Where did you grow up? When did you move here?” Emma asks suddenly, seeing the hesitation. It’s not like she can rip out Mary Margaret’s heart to prove a point – that won’t end well. But asking questions Regina didn’t account for in the curse worked once; maybe it can work again. “Where did you go to school to become a teacher? When did you get this apartment?”

 

“I…” She looks up at Emma helplessly, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know. How do I not _know_ those things?”

 

“Because you’ve been made to forget. Please, trust me.” Emma holds her gaze, her fingers squeezing lightly at the petite woman’s shoulders until she gets the nod she’s waiting for.

 

She’s cautious as she enters the hospital, waiting for Regina to come at her again, but there’s no sign of the evil queen. Getting past the small hospital staff is easy, especially with Mary Margaret in tow. They slip into John Doe’s room, Emma shutting the door softly behind them.

 

He looks like a coma patient should. There’s tubes and wires and a machine displaying a whole host of numbers Emma doesn’t know anything about. For a moment, she doubts herself. This is insane, magic and a curse and a kiss that can bring a man out of a coma.

 

But she put a man’s heart in a hole in the wall just a little while ago, so her definition of insanity needs some adjusting.

 

“So…I just…kiss him?” Mary Margaret asks. She’s standing by the door, looking at the man in the bed with apprehension. “Emma, are you sure…”

 

“No,” she replies honestly. Mary Margaret sighs, taking small steps toward the bed until she’s standing next to him.

 

“I have always felt…drawn…to him,” she admits quietly, hesitantly touching his hand. “Do you think…maybe…”

 

“I think I’ve seen a lot of strange things these last few weeks.” Emma gestures toward the figure in the bed, glancing over her shoulder through the glass door. “Do you, uh…do you want me to leave? If it’s weird to have me here...”

 

“Oh, we’re so far past weird.” Mary Margaret sighs, glancing back over at Emma. She sees it then, that split second where Mary Margaret’s brow lifts in the same way hers does, the same way Henry’s does, and she already knows this is her mother, but now she _knows_.

 

She should turn away, she knows she should, but she just _can’t_. It’s not exactly watching your parents fall in love, but when he opens his eyes (she _knows_ he’s going to) and the curse is broken and her parents are _together_ , then maybe, just maybe, all of the crap she’s been through, maybe it’s served a purpose.

 

Mary Margaret leans over him, slowly, hesitantly. She mumbles something to herself, too quietly for Emma to hear, but then she does it. She kisses him, a gentle press of her lips to his before pulling back. She looks lost for a moment, far away from the cool hospital room, her fingers lingering on her lips.

 

Nothing happens.

 

“Just wait,” Emma pleads as Mary Margaret turns to her, her eyes sad.

 

“Emma, I know this is important to you and to Henry, but…” She stops, glances back at the still form in the bed. “I shouldn’t be here. We should go before someone sees us.”

 

Emma feels her hopes drain out of her. She was so certain Henry was right – this man in the coma, this is her _father_ and she was going to be reunited with him. But she’s not. She’s still in this cursed town, with a mother (she thinks) who doesn’t believe her (she knows) and a heart in a wall.

 

Mary Margaret stops by her side, squeezing her shoulder lightly. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a coffee at Granny’s.” Emma nods, her eyes scanning the hospital monitors one last time before she turns toward the door.

 

That’s when she hears it…the rasping breath of air, the sandpaper voice struggling to get a word out. She whips around, startling blue eyes blinking up at her, traveling to Mary Margaret and around the room.

 

“Where am I?” He tries to shove himself up, but his muscles are weak and he barely gets onto his elbows, squinting under the bright hospital lights. “And who are you two?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... bad news, cliff hanger. Good news... tomorrow is a holiday in the States, I don't have to work, and I'm planning on getting another chapter up by the end of the day. Sorry for the delay! This class is kicking my ass for sure.


	22. Chapter 22

Emma’s eyes dart across the room, first to a very pale Mary Margaret, and then back to the man in the bed, the man who is supposed to be her father.

 

“I’m Emma,” she manages to say, pointing a shaky hand at Mary Margaret. “That’s Mary Margaret. She’s…”

 

“I’m one of the volunteers.” Mary Margaret’s smile is forced, and Emma can see the panic clawing at her, desperate to get out. “You’ve been here quite a long time. Do you remember your name?” She’s trying for gentle, but her eyes are too wide, her voice too shrill, for it to really work.

 

“I….don’t.” He frowns, looking around the hospital room. “What happened to me?”

 

“We’ll go get a doctor,” Emma tells him, grabbing Mary Margaret’s arm and steering her toward the door. Emma has no intention of any such thing – the longer people think he’s in a coma, the longer they have to deal with it. But she needs to get Mary Margaret out of that room. They’re barely into the hallway before she turns on Emma, her face a mess of emotions.

 

“I kissed him and he _woke up_ , Emma!” Her eyes are shining, and there’s a flood of emotions in them that suddenly make sense when Mary Margaret continues. “I kissed him, and there were these images…like a dream, but _so_ realistic. A castle, and a bridge, and I was _pregnant_.” She’s gasping for air, the shock of it making it hard to breathe.

 

Emma pulls her into an alcove, gently pushes her back against the wall for support. “Henry’s book says you’re Snow White and Prince Charming,” she says tentatively, slowly. “You fell in love when you saved him on a bridge.”

 

“I saved him?” She laughs, that small detail somehow cutting through the hysteria. Her breaths begin to even out, worry settling into her gaze as she turns to Emma. “So what you’re saying is that…whatever I just saw…those are _memories_?”

 

“I think so, yeah.” Emma shrugs, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone has noticed them or the newly awake patient. “Henry and I thought he would wake up and know you…that _he_ would remember. We weren’t counting on him not remembering.”

 

“This is a lot to process.”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

Mary Margaret sighs, reaching for Emma’s arm and squeezing lightly. “How did you get mixed up in all of this?”

 

“You might not believe me.”

 

“Try me.”

 

She’s not entirely sure what it is that makes her trust the woman, but after a moment’s hesitation, Emma tells her the whole story, huddled together in an alcove of the hospital. About Hook coming for in the middle of the night, the days she spent on his ship, going back to Boston, Henry, Graham, the weeks she’s been here in Storybrooke, Regina’s attempt to kill her…it all comes tumbling out. She fully expects Mary Margaret to have her committed to the psych ward down the hall by the end of it, but instead she finds a patient listener.

 

Mary Margaret is almost…motherly.

 

A rush of emotion threatens to overwhelm her. Here she is, in the most insane situation of her life, a woman who can’t be more than a year or so older than her who is supposed to be her parent, and it’s the first time she’s really felt like someone is trying to mother her – ever.

 

“I need you to remember all of it,” Emma ends with, her eyes pleading with Mary Margaret. “I need you to remember who you really are, because according to the book, you can be pretty scary, and I need scary if I’m going to keep Regina from killing me. I can handle a lot, trust me, but I’m out of my depth here.”

 

Mary Margaret leans back against the wall, thoughtful. She seems suddenly a lot older, weary. “You’re telling me the storybook I gave Henry to cheer him up is actually about _me_?”

 

“Did you read it?” Emma asks curiously, the wheels beginning to spin. “Do you remember any of it?”

 

She shrugs. “It was a bunch of fairytales.”

 

“You don’t remember the details, though? How Snow White was a bandit?” Emma presses, watching her carefully. “It isn’t the same Disney movie versions.”

 

“I…” Mary Margaret frowns, rubbing her temples before looking back to Emma. “I don’t remember.”

 

“Maybe if you read the book again, do you think it would help?”

 

Her brow furrows, her eyes focused down the hall, toward where her husband that she doesn’t remember – who doesn’t remember her – is still in his hospital bed. “Do you think….do you think he might remember if we brought the book to him?”

 

“I have no idea, Mary Margaret. But we can try.”

 

“Okay.” She smiles, but Emma can see her thoughts are elsewhere, her gaze unfocussed. “I’m going to stay with him while you get it…in case I remember anything else. Or he does.” Emma nods, turning away, but Mary Margaret catches her arm. “Be careful, okay?”

 

Emma nods, forcing a tight smile and turning down the hall. It’s only been hours since she left Killian on his ship this morning, and she’s got much bigger problems right now, but she’s worried about him. She almost wishes she hadn’t hidden his heart, but kept it on her just so would know it’s safe.

 

He didn’t tell her his plans for the day, but she knows Regina is looking for him. She expected Emma to unravel her plans, but Hook was supposed to be on her side – it’s a betrayal and Emma can’t imagine a woman like Regina takes betrayal well.

 

She slips through town, sticking to alleys and shadows on her way back to Granny’s. Henry left the book with her following their last meeting, and she only hopes Regina hasn’t been snooping around her room.

 

Granny herself is waiting for her when she enters, watching as Emma fishes her key from her pocket. “Emma, I’m so sorry,” she begins hesitantly, following her toward her room. “I’m afraid…I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

 

“What?” Emma is sharper than she means to be, but she doesn’t have time for this.

 

“Well, you see…there’s a city ordinance. No felons.” Granny looks terribly uncomfortable, and it’s all Emma can do not to scream. She knows exactly where this is coming from, and it’s not enough that she’s running all over town trying to save people, but now she’s not even going to have her own bed to sleep in.

 

“Let me guess, the mayor called to remind you.”

 

Granny lifts one shoulder, the most acknowledgment Emma is going to receive. “I’m sorry, dear. You can get your things together, but I’ve got to have the key.”

 

Emma hands it over, managing to keep her groan to herself until the door closes behind her. She has no idea how long the woman will leave her be, but she hurriedly throws her things in her bag, including Henry’s book, hidden below layers of tangled clothes. She eyes the shower longingly, since she’s bound for Killian’s ship and has no idea when she’ll get one next, but there’s no time.

 

Granny is nowhere to be seen when Emma leaves, bag over her shoulder. She needs to get back to the hospital, needs to deliver the book, but she’s also growing more and more agitated about Killian. She _has_ to know he’s all right. Maybe in his world, walking around without a heart is acceptable, but in hers, it’s _terrifying_.

 

She wastes another five minutes sitting in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel before she turns for the docks. The curse isn’t going anywhere in the next twenty minutes; Regina can’t kill the whole town.

 

She brings her bag with her onboard, her hackles up at the curiously quiet ship. The crew isn’t on deck, nor can she hear their voices from below. She moves cautiously toward Killian’s quarters, listening intently with every step.

 

She finds him collapsed in the middle of the floor, legs sprawled out and torso twisted. Her heart leaps into her throat at the sight as she rushes forward, her fingers light on his throat, checking for a pulse in spite of not knowing if he even will have one without his heart.

 

But the magic that lets him breathe without it must keep his blood moving, because there’s a pulse and Emma has never been so relieved in her life. “Killian,” she calls softly, bending close and giving his shoulder a gentle shake. “Killian, wake up!”

 

He doesn’t move.

 

Emma tries not to let the panic well up, tries to keep herself calm as she desperately searches for a clue in the room as to what’s happened. He’s alive, but he’s not merely asleep, that much is obvious. She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, tries to focus, tries to feel everything around her, concentrate like she’s worked on with her magic.

 

It’s then that she feels it, the darkness settled over him like a shroud. Magic of some kind or another, and it’s got its claws into him. Emma has no idea what to do about it, how to fight it – her magic is barely under control.

 

The memory of Mary Margaret kissing her husband awake flashes through her mind, the power of True Love’s Kiss, but that won’t work either – she doesn’t love Hook.

 

She curses in frustration, leaning back on her heels and hovering her hands over him. If she can find a way to draw the magic out, like sucking poison from a wound, maybe that will work. “C’mon,” she mutters to herself, her eyes sliding shut as she concentrates, focuses on the blackness and struggles against it.

 

His eyes pop open with a gasp, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist in a tight grip. “Emma…” He breathes out her name, his voice hoarse, but it’s the best sound she’s heard in a long time.

 

“Thank god you’re all right.” She throws her arms around his shoulders, pressing her cheek to his shoulder and breathing in the familiar scent of leather and rum and sweat and skin. “What happened?”

 

“Regina.” He winces in her arms, struggling to his feet and tugging her with him. “She came to remove my heart, but upon discovering someone had beaten her to it, she had a fit of temper. The whole bloody crew is knocked out by her magic, I suspect.” He notices the bag at her feet then, her clothes spilling from the hastily packed sack. “What’s this?”

 

“Regina had me kicked out of Granny’s,” Emma explains, nudging the bag with her boot. She shouldn’t feel shy all of a sudden, not with everything going on around them, but a flush rises to her cheeks all the same. “Could I…would it be all right if I…”

 

“Bloody hell, I would be delighted to have you, Swan. You’ll recall it was my desire for you to never leave.” He steps closer, pulls her into his arms so their lips are nearly touching. “I assure you, when this is over, I intend to take full advantage of us sharing a bed.”

 

“I’m not staying,” she warns him, pulling away just enough to avoid his kiss with a serious look in her eye. “This is temporary.”

 

“Aye,” he agrees easily enough, but the kiss that follows tells a different tale. It’s needy and demanding, and Emma could get lost in this. She’s lucky he doesn’t have his heart right now, because it’s that off look in his eyes that pushes her back, brings her to her senses.

 

“I have to get the book back to the hospital. Mary Margaret, she kissed the guy in the coma, and he woke up, but he doesn’t remember anything. We have to make him remember.”

 

“He’s your father, yeah?”

 

Emma gulps, nodding because it’s just too strange to say yes to. “At least, we think so. And Mary Margaret, she got these flashes of her memories when she kissed him…” She trails off, noticing the intense look in his eye. “What?”

 

“True Love’s Kiss didn’t break the curse, but it did wake him up.” Killian pauses, but his eyes don’t leave hers. “You’re the one to break the curse, Emma. True Love’s Kiss is the most powerful magic in all the realms.”

 

His words hang between them, and it takes her a moment, but when she realizes what he’s saying to her, she freezes. It’s all she can do not to bolt right then and there, because even without his heart, there’s something in his gaze, something with roots so deep she’s not sure they actually end. It’s too much for him to say this to her, to echo a not so dissimilar thought she had five minutes earlier.

 

She doesn’t love Hook – but is he under the impression he’s in love with her?

 

“I did swear to help you, Emma,” he says lightly, but she hears it anyway, the emotion he’s struggling to hide, the refusal to ask the question or hear the answer, because this is a risk too big for either of them.

 

“I have to go to the hospital. The book.” She looks away, down to the bag at her feet, fishing out the book and holding it close to her chest. She heads for the door, but stops at the last moment, her eyes squeezing shut, because whatever she feels for him, whatever is going on between them, she can’t just leave him here with Regina on a rampage.

 

“Are you coming?” she finally asks, one hand on the door, not looking at him, but sensing his eyes on her. It’s the best she can do.

 

“Aye, lass. Lead on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter if you celebrate!


	23. Chapter 23

It doesn’t work.

 

Emma tries not to let it bother her, the crushing disappointment on Mary Margaret’s face as she reads the words, struggles to remember – and doesn’t.

 

John Doe, Prince Charming, whoever he is, he doesn’t remember either.

 

She’s hovering in the background, trying not to intrude, but not quite sure she can just leave, either. Killian is with her, and she’s not sure when he did it, but he’s slipped his fingers between hers, silent at her side but _there_.

 

It’s one of the things she’s slowly come to realize she really appreciates about him. Everyone she’s ever cared about has walked out on her – Killian has been there (whether she wants him or not) from the moment he stepped out of the shadows and into her kitchen.

 

“It’s okay, Emma,” Mary Margaret finally says with a sad smile, noticing how much Emma is fidgeting uncomfortably by the wall. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to just…” She gestures to the book in her lap, her gaze flickering back to the man in the bed.

 

“Sure.” Emma hesitates, glancing out of the corner of her eye at Killian. “I’m just going to stop by your place and pick up that thing I left there.”

 

Mary Margaret nods, something softening in her expression as she notices their entwined hands. “The spare key is under the mat.”

 

“Swan,” he growls lowly in her ear as they exit the hospital, a warning there. “Tell me we are not going to retrieve the item I expressly instructed you to hide in a location not of my knowledge only this morning.”

 

“Get in the car, Killian.”

 

It’s a stare down in the parking lot, several long, tense seconds of her glaring right into his glower before he begrudgingly gets in the car.

 

The car does not amuse him, though Emma can’t help but smirk to herself as they drive the short distance to Mary Margaret’s apartment. He’s got himself plastered against the seat, the door, the damn _roof_ , bracing for impact with an entire forest of telephone poles in spite of the fact that Emma is driving with the aggression of an eighty year old woman about to nod off.

 

He springs out of the car the moment she stops, waiting on the sidewalk with a scowl. “Your vessel is frankly terrifying, Swan,” he announces, glaring at the yellow Bug. “I much prefer to travel by ship.”

 

“I don’t see your ship on Main Street,” she retorts, gesturing to the street lined with cars. “When we go to the Caribbean, we’ll take your ship. When we need to get around town, we take my car.”

 

She’s about to turn away from him, but his grimace has turned into a smug smirk. “What?” she demanded, glancing around. They really shouldn’t be just hanging out on the sidewalk with Regina roaming the town.

 

“Planning an adventure to the Caribbean for us, love?”

 

“It was just an expression…oh, forget it!” She throws her hands up, his taunting smile an obvious sign he’s going to take what she’s said however he damn well pleases. “Let’s go.”

 

“I still think this a foolish idea, love.”

 

“I don’t care. I can’t…” Emma stops in front of Mary Margaret’s door, squatting down to remove the key from under the mat before turning to face him. “Look,” she starts, taking a deep breath before going on. “You kissed me, earlier, and it didn’t feel…it didn’t feel right. And I can’t…it’s not right. Besides, she tried to take it already and saw it was gone. It makes it unlikely she’ll try again.”

 

“So we’ve come to fetch my heart because you wish to kiss me?”

 

He’s grinning madly at her, and he’s enjoying this so much it _almost_ brings that spark back into his eyes, the one that tells her he’s having a grand old time. It’s almost enough to make her give into encouraging him, but instead she huffs out her breath and turns back to the door.

 

The apartment is just as they left it, and Emma closes the door carefully behind them, glancing around. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but it just _feels_ wrong in the apartment, like they’re being watched.

 

Only there’s no one there.

 

“Just a second,” she tells Killian, nervously scanning the room before walking over to the wall with the loose brick. She turns away from him, focusing on working the brick carefully free until it slides back to reveal his glowing heart.

 

“All right, you ready?” she asks as she turns, but the only noise that comes from him is a strangled curse. He’s clawing at his throat, and Emma rushes forward, praying replacing his heart will stop whatever is suddenly happening. There’s no finesse, no gentleness as she shoves her hand into his chest, praying she knows what she’s doing as she releases his heart.

 

It doesn’t help.

 

A sinister laugh snatches her attention from behind her, and she spins to find Regina standing in the apartment, her painted lips curled into a ominous smile. “Seems your boyfriend is having a bit of trouble, Miss Swan.”

 

“Stop it!” Emma frantically turns back to Killian, his face bright red and his eyes wide. “Just stop!”

 

She releases whatever magical hold is causing his inability to breathe, and Killian sputters, coughing roughly as the air begins to flow through his lungs again. One hand on his shoulder, Emma turns back to Regina, carefully keeping herself between the evil queen and the pirate.

 

“What do you want? I already gave Mary Margaret the book. She’s starting to remember. And that guy in the hospital, he’s awake. It’s all coming undone,” Emma tells her, hoping she can rattle the woman enough to get back to Killian’s ship and come up with a plan – any plan. “Henry knows who you are,” she adds, counting on whatever it is that’s led to her son’s well-being so far is still inside the woman somewhere. “He’s _afraid_ of you.”

 

“He’s only afraid of me because of whatever nonsense you put in his head. What I _want_ is for you to be gone from this world, as I was _promised_ by the captain here. But since he failed so spectacularly, I’ll just have to deal with you myself.”

 

“Emma…” He gasps out her name from behind her, and she can hear it, the paralyzing fear, the way the air still wheezes into and out of his lungs. But she can’t listen to it, can’t let it distract her, because there’s something about the way the Regina is raising her hands that makes Emma hold her breath.

 

“Down!” she shouts suddenly, shoving Killian to the floor as a fireball erupts out of Regina’s hand. She can feel the searing heat of it as it barely misses them, and all of her worry, all of her concern, it fuels into a white hot anger. As soon as the flames pass, she’s back on her feet, a surge of power welling up before releasing from her outstretched hands.

 

She has the satisfaction of seeing Regina pushed back, of seeing her shocked expression for one small moment before she disappears in a cloud of purple smoke.

 

“We have to go.” She doesn’t stop to think, doesn’t stop to process, doesn’t stop to _feel_ , because Killian is still lying on the floor and she just _can’t._ She tugs him to his feet, ushering him down the stairs and into the car before driving like hell for the docks.

 

It’s not logical, but she thinks if she can _just_ get him on his ship, get him into his quarters and the crew to take the ship out to sea, he’ll be safe until she’s figured out a way to break the curse. Because she wants him here, she wants to lean on him, but it’s going to get him _killed_ and she refuses to be a part of that.

 

“I’m all right, Swan,” he tells her as they get out of the car, his voice still raspy but his color back to normal. There’s a hint of a smile playing across his features as he reaches for her, looping an arm around her waist. “You were bloody brilliant.”

 

She ignores him, struggling free of his grip and turning for the ship. He’ll follow her – she knows he will. If she has to handcuff him in his cabin and give an order herself, she’ll do it. He needs to get out of town.

 

She can’t stop. She can’t kiss him. She can’t do _anything_ but put one foot in front of the other, because if she stops to think about this for too long, her resolve is going to crumble.

 

He follows her on board, and it’s still curiously quiet, but it’s not until they’re back in his quarters that she realizes why – Regina’s damn magic knocked them all out. She used _her_ magic to revive Killian, but the rest of them are still asleep.

 

If they’re asleep, they can’t crew his ship. Which means she has to wake up each and every one of them, _and_ keep him in here, _and_ keep him from doing anything foolish like going after Regina by himself.

 

“Love, what’s wrong?” He closes the door behind them, wraps her in his arms and forces himself into her line of sight. The moment he does, he sees the tears of frustrating and anger and terror rising in her eyes, and his brows draw together, a line forming across his forehead. “Emma?”

 

“How can you _ask_ me that?” she demands, hating that her voice is thick, hating that the damn tears she doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t _ever_ want to cry, are spilling down her cheeks. “You almost _died_. Regina is trying to kill us. _Actually_ trying to kill us, twice in one day. I thought the heart-grabbing was bad enough, but now she can choke you without even laying a hand on you? She can just pop up in the middle of Mary Margaret’s apartment?

 

“I had a solution. I was going to keep you down here, tell the crew you ordered them to set sail. I was going to send you _away_ until this was over, so you should be safe. And instead…”

 

His lips descend on hers, cutting off any further protests, any further tirades. There’s something different about this kiss, and she can feel her body fairly humming with magic as she finally gives in, finally opens herself up to this thing between them. Because it’s insane but she knew it when she got in front of him, when she shoved him down below the fireball, she _knew_.

 

There’s a ripple, an explosion without sound that radiates out from them, Emma’s hair lifting in the breeze, but she barely notices. Kissing Killian with his heart back is the real deal, and even as the tears slide down her cheeks, she presses closer.

 

They’re panting when they break apart, but he doesn’t let her go far, doesn’t release his grip on her for a single second. “I’m not going bloody anywhere without you,” he says fiercely, his lips darkened from their kiss and his eyes burning into her.

 

“Okay,” she whispers, her eyes sliding shut as he gathers her in his arms, presses her tight and kisses her hair even as his fingers wind into it. She just stands in his arms, basking in his love for whatever precious moments they have before the next battle begins.

 

Because she has to admit it now – she _loves_ him. She shouldn’t. But she does, and she thinks if she were brave enough to say it, brave enough to tell him she’s fallen in love with him despite every reason not to, he would say it back.

 

But there’s no time, because there’s the sudden sound of movement on the ship. They each feel the other tense. She’s reaching for her gun and he for his sword, but then they hear it – the familiar grumble of the crew.

 

“They’re awake,” she whispers, glancing up at him but not quite relaxing her grip on her gun. “How are they awake?”

 

“I haven’t any idea,” he says slowly, staring at the wooden door as though it may pop open with an answer.

 

Ten minutes later, it does just that.

 

Henry bursts through the door, his cheeks red and his words so garbled from his excitement that Emma can barely understand him, but it sounds a whole lot like _you broke the curse_.

 

“Slow down, kid,” she finally cuts in, putting a hand on his shoulder and squatting down to look him in the eye. “Tell me again, _slowly_.”

 

“I was walking home from school, and I looked up, and the clock tower, it had the _right_ time. And then everyone was in the street, and they seemed so confused, but they _remembered_ , Mom! They knew who they were! They _all_ know who they are!” He’s still excited, his eyes shining up at her, but Emma is speechless.

 

“That’s great, Henry, but I didn’t do anything.”

 

“But you _had_ to! You were the only one!”

 

“I’ve been here since I left Mary Margaret at the hospital.”

 

“Were you doing magic? You had to have done something!”

 

It’s an innocent question, but Emma blushes fiercely, because what she _has_ been doing is kissing Killian. Her relief and her emotion and her need to just have a few happy moments with him led to one lingering kiss after another. Nothing like that first explosive kiss, where he cut her off and the whole world seemed to drop away around them, but gentler, softer kisses that made her want to nuzzle into him and practically purr with contentment in their momentary bubble.

 

“You _did_ break the curse!” Henry exclaims, breaking Emma out of her thoughts. His eyes dart between her and Killian, who is also looking a curious shade of pink. Killian, the usually innuendo-laced pirate, doesn’t want to admit to her son what they’re been up to, either.

 

It makes her smile more than she thinks it should.

 

“Henry, I don’t think…”

 

“You kissed, didn’t you?” he interrupts, grinning with all the glee of a child’s certainty. “I _knew_ it!”

 

“Emma?” Killian looks up at her suddenly, his eyes wide and it nearly breaks her heart the hope that lives in his gaze. “Emma, do you…” He stops, nervously scratching behind his ear and eyeing her son. “Oh, bloody hell. I love you, Swan. I’ve loved you since you battled me aboard my own ship, and when you said you were going to try to…”

 

“I love you,” she cuts in, her eyes squeezing shut, because this is a lot, and they’ve got an audience, and she’s not good at words, but _damn him_ , these are some of the most important words she’s ever said in her life. “I was trying to _protect_ you, you idiot.”

 

His smile softens, and he reaches for her, and she goes, audience or not, burying her face against his neck. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her arms going around his waist under the heavy leather coat, his skin warm through the thin material.

 

“For?”

 

“Helping me break the curse…just like you said you would.” She pulls away just enough to press her lips to his, one hand winding into his hair.

 

She doesn’t care that Henry is right there. She doesn’t care that even with the curse broken, Regina isn’t subdued yet. She doesn’t care that she’s promised Killian a hand and hasn’t delivered (she’s given him her heart, it will do for now). She doesn’t care about any of it.

 

She just cares about this one small moment that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it! The idea that got me writing this entire fic started here - a TLK with CS to break the curse. Hope you all enjoyed the journey! 
> 
> There will be an epilogue. My goal is to have it posted by the end of the weekend. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	24. Chapter 24

It’s an…interesting…couple of weeks in Storybrooke once the curse is broken. Emma has a hard time coming to a begrudging truce with Regina, but in the end, it’s the love for Henry that makes her reconsider.

 

If Regina can love a child, she can still be redeemed as a human being.

 

Convincing the rest of the town of that takes some time, but Emma manages. She does it because it’s the right thing to do, but also because of Henry. Regina is the mother he’s known his entire life – she can’t take that away from him, even if she is learning, slowly, how to be a mother, too.

 

Getting to know her parents is surreal. Mary Margaret cooks Sunday dinners and invites her and Henry _and_ Killian, though the first dinner is awkward and tense, because their daughter is dating Captain _freaking_ Hook.

 

Emma reminds them it was their kiss that broke the curse, that he _loves_ her and he makes her happy, and life goes on. Killian and David even start to develop an odd friendship, something the wavers between mutual suspicion and an odd sort of camaraderie that makes Emma roll her eyes.

 

They’ve offered her a room in their apartment, but it’s cramped, and as much as Emma misses the modern conveniences, there’s something about falling asleep in Killian’s arms to the gentle rock of the water below them that she’s come to enjoy.

 

She just charges her phone and showers at work.

 

With Graham gone and the curse broken, Emma’s slid easily into the role of Sheriff. Her father helps, and together, they manage to keep a steady grip on the complaints that arise as two very different worlds collide.

 

In the evenings, those quiet moments on deck with Killian, she practices her magic. They’re alone these days, the crew having sought more comfortable lodgings in town and the ship is empty. He doesn’t seem to much mind, but she hasn’t forgotten the promise about his hand – not that he needs it for nefarious reasons anymore, but because she gave her _word_.

 

Except, that’s not the entire truth either. It’s more to do with the look he gets sometimes, a scowl at the hook on his wrist, or a wince when she runs her fingers down his arm in bed in the morning. She’s working on being more open with her words, but she does everything in her power to _show_ him she loves him, just the way he is.

 

But it still bothers him.

 

He’s given her so much. It’s not about tit for tat or keeping track, but she wants to do this for him. She can’t give him back his family like he’s done for her, she can’t give him a purpose like this town and breaking the curse has done for her – but she can stop that look of disgust with himself he gets when he looks at empty space where his hand should be.

 

It’s a quiet night, and her back is to the mast as she sits on deck, her eyes closed in concentration. She thinks she’s finally ready, but this isn’t something she wants to get wrong, so while he’s sleeping below, she’s up here, mumbling under her breath as she tries to bend her magic to her will.

 

“Swan?” His voice is rough with sleep, and when she looks up she finds him barefoot at the top of the stairs to his quarters, the soft fleece pants she bought him hanging low on his hips. He hasn’t bothered with a shirt, and he shivers in the cold night air, rubbing his arms briskly. “It’s freezing out, Swan. Come back to bed.” The words are laced with invitation, and she shivers herself.

 

The day they broke the curse was the day she stopped trying to fight her desire for him. The chaos of the day eventually calmed as the town fell into a restless sleep, and Killian had dragged her back to the _Jolly_ despite her protests that she had to stay at the Sheriff’s station.

 

The ship had already been emptied of the crew, and the creaking of the wood and the gentle lapping of the waves had been a balm on her frayed nerves. Killian’s kisses had started gently, a path over her shoulders as he worked his hand over her back through the thin T-shirt she wore, kneading the tension out of her.

 

She hadn’t meant to let the moan of pleasure slip out, but the warmth of his hand and the way his strong fingers worked at the sore muscle had been too much to fight. He’d stilled at that noise, spun her slowly in his arms until they were facing one another.

 

The look in his eyes that night won’t be one she soon forgets. His eyes had gone deep, dark blue, his lips parted slightly as his hand ran up her spine and into her hair. His eyes slid shut a moment before hers did, and then he was kissing her, kissing her and touching her and pressing the line of his body to hers.

 

It was gentle that first time, sighs of pleasure and soft, teasing touches that simmered until they both burst into flames, panting in each other’s arms. She’d fallen asleep in his arms that night, her back pressed to his bare chest, skin to skin, and she’d never felt more like she’d found a home.

 

Of course, since then, he’s had her on just about every surface in his quarters, including last night’s particularly vigorous round against the door.

 

She smiles to herself, leaning back against the mast and wishing for warmer weather, because she’s certain he would appreciate having her right here in the middle of his ship, but it’s too cold for it and Emma has a different sort of plan for their evening.

 

“I’m coming,” she tells him now, rising from her place against the mast with a raised eyebrow, waiting for him to smile at her in that devilish manner she so enjoys.

 

He doesn’t disappoint.

 

“Why, I haven’t even touched you, Swan. My talents _are_ rather impressive.” He grins as she jabs her elbow into his ribs, but it’s lightly done and his arm wraps around her as he pulls her below. It’s not much warmer in his quarters, but they’re out of the wind, and she’s brought over a small, battery powered space heater for them, so it’s not too terrible.

 

As the door closes behind them, he turns to her, his smile turning seductive. “If the lady will oblige me, I do think we could put some truth in those words.” His fingers dance under the hem of her heavy sweater, already tugging on it to get it off.

 

She shrugs out of the sweater, but that’s as far as she lets him get, stilling his hand with a gentle touch of her own. He seems disappointed, but he catches the spark in her eye and leans back, curiosity overtaking him. “What is it, love?”

 

“I think I’m ready.” She takes a deep breath, reaching for him and her hand landing on his left shoulder. “If you are.”

 

His eyebrows knit together in confusion, his head tilting to one side as he regards her. “I should think you know by now I’m _always_ ready for you, my love, but I suspect you are talking about something else entirely by your insistence on retaining your top.”

 

She laughs, a hint of nervousness in the sound even she can hear as her fingers trail down his left arm. It’s bare tonight, and his expression shifts, his breath catching as her touch lingers on the stump. “We’ll get to that. I think you might enjoy yourself more, though, if you let me go first…” She lets her voice trail off, trying to get a read on him as she lightly caresses the scarred skin.

 

“I have thought about nothing more than having two hands to ravish you with from the start,” he tells her, but it’s not the innuendo-laced comment she’s grown used to. His voice is thick with emotion, and his eyes are filled with hope. It means far more to him than better sex, and she knows it, but she’s still not good at heavy, emotionally charged moments like this.

 

“Okay.” She smiles at him, taking a deep breath and letting her eyes slide shut. She can feel his eyes on her, the nervous energy radiating off him, and she tries to block it out, tries to focus, because she _wants_ this to work.

 

It’s his gasp that makes her eyes fly open, terrified she’s hurt him or somehow failed, but instead, he’s holding a perfectly normal left hand in front of his wide eyes, tentatively wiggling his fingers. “It worked!” she exclaims happily, relief flooding through her.

 

His eyes shift to her, and with them comes a flood of emotions strong enough to take Emma’s breath away. She’s still standing by the door, but he reaches for her, reaches for her with the left hand and when his fingers connect with her cheek, his eyes slide shut with a shudder.

 

She wants to say something, anything, but there’s nothing for her to say in a moment like this. He’s overcome with emotion, his eyes still closed as he moves closer to her, his fingers threading into her hair as his right hand slips under her shirt, settles on her waist and he sighs.

 

She can’t take it anymore, and she reaches for him, pulls his body to hers and kisses him. The tang of salt is on his lips, and she only pulls him closer, winding her arms around his neck. “Take me to bed,” she whispers in his ear, and he shudders against her again, his kiss becoming more insistent as his hands slide down her ribs.

 

He grips the backs of her thighs, easily lifting her into his arms as her legs come around his waist. “We’ll get there,” he promises, his hips pinning her against the wall as his hands begin to explore.

 

Emma has never once had any complaints about her physical relationship with Killian, but tonight, he is a man possessed. He’s been able to reduce her to putty in his arms before, but his hands play her body like a finely tuned instrument.

 

“Gods, Emma, being able to touch you like this…” They’ve finally made it to the bed, and he’s making very good on his promises above deck. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” His voice is pure lust, and Emma is lost in the haze of it. Just being able to touch her like this, one hand between her legs and the other at her breast, is a turn on for him, but her reaction to his touch makes it nearly impossible not to simply have her that moment. She’s lost the ability to speak and gasps her agreement instead, pulling his mouth to hers for a kiss.

 

He’s insatiable, and they relearn each other’s bodies until the dawn is spilling through the windows. But once they’ve caught their breath, and theirs hearts have calmed, she’s curled in his arms and he’s quiet, thoughtful.

 

“Thank you,” he says softly, stroking his fingers over her spine with one hand while the other holds her hip possessively, keeps her anchored to him. “You haven’t any idea…I love you, Emma Swan.”

 

“You know I never thought less of you, right? I didn’t do this because I thought you needed fixing, Killian. I did it because _you_ wanted it.”

 

“I know, love.” He turns his head, kisses her hair and relaxes into the pillows. “But you deserve a whole man, and I intend to give you one.”

 

“You already did.” The reply is sleepy, exhaustion finally catching up with her, but it’s no less true. She curls into his arms, his skin and the sheets and blankets making her drowsy as she lets her eyes close, deeply content.

 

He listens to her breathing even out, feels her relax into him as sleep takes her, and smiles to himself. She’s the last thing he’d ever expected to find when summoned from Neverland, a second chance at love and happiness as pure as the sunshine. But then she blew into his life, kicking and screaming as she did, irritating him and baiting him, and finally making him turn his ship around.

 

He’d written it off so long ago it had become impossible, but in the end, all he needed to find a happy ending was a change in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking this journey with me. I may have discovered along the way that I really prefer writing modern AU, but I'm still glad I took this project on. It's good to challenge yourself as a writer, and man, this one did just that. 
> 
> I have another long form (modern) AU in the works that I'll probably start posting in a few weeks, once I can get a bit further into it. With the school schedule this summer being what it is, I want to have a good stock of chapters before I start posting for when I (inevitably) disappear into MBA hell. Until then, feel free to come say hi on Tumblr. 
> 
> Until next time! 
> 
> NFR


End file.
